T 

& 


MARTEN  A 

AND  OTHEF^STORjES 

OF  THE  WARJIME 

BY 


Marsena 

•and  Other  Stones  of  the  Wartime 


Marsena 

and  Other  Stories  of  the  Wartime 


BY 

HAROLD   FREDERIC 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1894 


.,£ 


Copyright,  1894,  by 
Charles  Scribncr's  Sons 


TROW   DIMCTOKY 
AND   BOOKBINDING  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


To  MY  FRIEND 
EDMUND  JUDSON  MOFFAT 


M119741 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Marsena, / 

The  War  Widow, 97 

The  Eve  of  the  Fourth, 149 

My  Aunt  Susan, 185 


Marsena 


MARSENA 


I.  / 


MARSENA  PULFORD,  what  time  the  vil 
lage  of  Octavius  knew  him,  was  a  slen 
der  and  tall  man,  apparently  skirting  upon  the 
thirties,  with  sloping  shoulders  and  a  romantic 
aspect. 

It  was  not  alone  his  flowing  black  hair,  and 
his  broad  shirt-collars  turned  down  after  the  as 
certained  manner  of  the  British  poets,  which 
stamped  him  in  our  humble  minds  as  a  living 
brother  to  "  The  Corsair,"  "  The  Last  of  the 
Suliotes,"  and  other  heroic  personages  en 
graved  in  the  albums  and  keepsakes  of  the  pe 
riod.  His  face,  with  its  darkling  eyes  and  dis 
tinguished  features,  conveyed  wherever  it  went 
an  impression  of  proudly  silent  melancholy. 
In  those  days — that  is,  just  before  the  war — 
one  could  not  look  so  convincingly  and  uni 
formly  sad  as  Marsena  did  without  raising  the 
general  presumption  of  having  been  crossed  in 
love.  We  had  a  respectful  feeling,  in  his  case, 


Marsena 


that  the  lady  ought  to  have  been  named  Inez, 
or  at  the  very  least  Oriana. 

Although  he  went  to  the  Presbyterian 
Church  with  entire  regularity,  was  never  seen 
in  public  cave  in  a  long-tailed  black  coat,  and 
in  the  win-ter:  Wore  gloves  instead  of  mittens, 
the  .local  conscience  had  always,  I  think,  sun- 
',dry  reservations  about  the  moral  character  of 
his  'past'.  '  'It'  would  not  have  been  reckoned 
against  him,  then,  that  he  was  obviously  poor. 
We  had  not  learned  in  those  primitive  times  to 
measure  people  by  dollar-mark  standards.  Un 
der  ordinary  conditions,  too,  the  fact  that  he 
came  from  New  England — had  indeed  lived  in 
Boston — must  have  counted  rather  in  his  favor 
than  otherwise.  But  it  was  known  that  he  had 
been  an  artist,  a  professional  painter  of  pictures 
and  portraits,  and  we  understood  in  Octaviiis 
that  this  involved  acquaintanceship,  if  not  even 
familiarity,  with  all  sorts  of  occult  and  deleteri 
ous  phases  of  city  life. 

Our  village  held  all  vice,  and  especially  the 
vice  of  other  and  larger  places,  in  stern  rep 
robation.  Yet,  though  it  turned  this  matter 
of  the  newcomer's  previous  occupation  over  a 
good  deal  in  its  mind,  Marsena  carried  him 
self  with  such  a  gentle  picturesqueness  of  sub 
dued  sorrow  that  these  suspicions  were  dis- 


Marsena 


armed,  or,  at  the  worst,  only  added  to  the 
fascinated  interest  with  which  Octavius  watched 
his  spare  and  solitary  figure  upon  its  streets,  and 
noted  the  progress  of  his  efforts  to  find  a  footing 
for  himself  in  its  social  economy. 

It  was  taken  for  granted  among  us  that  he 
possessed  a  fine  and  well-cultivated  mind,  to 
match  that  thoughtful  countenance  and  that 
dignified  deportment.  This  assumption  con 
tinued  to  hold  its  own  in  the  face  of  a  long  se 
ries  of  failures  in  the  attempt  to  draw  him  out. 
Almost  everybody  who  was  anybody  at  one 
time  or  another  tried  to  tap  Marsena' s  mental 
reservoirs — and  all  in  vain.  Beyond  the  bar 
est  commonplaces  of  civil  conversation  he  could 
never  be  tempted.  Once,  indeed,  he  had  vol 
unteered  to  the  Rev.  Mr.  Bunce  the  statement 
that  he  regarded  Washington  Allston  as  in 
several  respects  superior  to  Copley  ;  but  as  no 
one  in  Octavius  knew  who  these  men  were,  the 
remark  did  not  help  us  much.  It  was  quoted 
frequently,  however,  as  indicating  the  lofty  and 
recondite  nature  of  the  thoughts  with  which 
Mr.  Pulford  occupied  his  intellect.  As  it  be 
came  more  apparent,  too,  that  his  reserve  must 
be  the  outgrowth  of  some  crushing  and  incur 
able  heart  grief,  people  grew  to  defer  to  it  and 
to  avoid  vexing  his  silent  moods  with  talk. 

5 


Marsena 


Thus,  when  he  had  been  a  resident  and 
neighbor  for  over  two  years,  though  no  one 
knew  him  at  all  well,  the  whole  community  re 
garded  him  with  kindly  and  even  respectful 
emotions,  and  the  girls  in  particular  felt  that  he 
was  a  distinct  acquisition  to  the  place. 

I  have  said  that  Marsena  Pulford  was  poor. 
Hardly  anybody  in  Octavius  ever  knew  to 
what  pathetic  depths  his  poverty  during  the 
second  winter  descended.  There  was  a  period 
of  several  months,  in  sober  truth,  during  which 
he  fed  himself  upon  six  or  seven  cents  a  day. 
As  he  was  too  proud  to  dream  of  asking  credit 
at  the  grocer's  and  butcher's,  and  walked  about 
more  primly  erect  than  ever,  meantime,  in  his 
frock-coat  and  gloves,  no  idea  of  these  priva 
tions  got  abroad.  And  at  the  end  of  this  long 
evil  winter  there  came  a  remarkable  spring, 
which  altered  in  a  violent  way  the  fortunes  of 
millions  of  people  —  among  them  Marsena. 
We  have  to  do  with  events  somewhat  subse 
quent  to  that  even,  and  with  the  period  of  Mr. 
Pulford's  prosperity. 

The  last  discredited  strips  of  snow  up  in  the 

ravines  on  the  hill-sides  were  melting  away  ;  the 

robins  had  come  again,  and  were  bustling  busily 

across  between  the  willows,  already  in  the  leaf, 

6 


Mar  sena 


and  the  budded  elms ;  men  were  going  about 
the  village  streets  without  their  overcoats,  and 
boys  were  telling  exciting  tales  about  the  suck 
ers  in  the  creek ;  our  old  friend  Homer  Sage 
had  returned  from  his  winter's  sojourn  in  the 
county  poorhouse  at  Thessaly,  and  could  be  seen 
daily  sitting  in  the  sunshine  on  the  broad  stoop 
of  the  Excelsior  Hotel.  It  was  April  of  1862. 
A  whole  year  had  gone  by  since  that  sudden 
and  memorable  turn  in  Marsena  Pulford's  luck. 
So  far  from  there  being  signs  now  of  a  possible 
adverse  change,  this  new  springtide  brought 
such  an  increase  of  good  fortune,  with  its  at 
tendant  responsibilities,  that  Marsena  was  un 
able  to  bear  the  halcyon  burden  alone.  He 
took  in  a  partner  to  help  him,  and  then  the 
firm  jointly  hired  a  boy.  The  partner  painted 
a  signboard  to  mark  this  double  event,  in  bold 
red  letters  of  independent  form  upon  a  yellow 
ground  : 

PULFORD   &   SHULL. 
EMPIRE    STATE    PORTRAIT    ATHENAEUM    AND 

STUDIO. 
War  Likenesses  at  Peace  Prices. 

Marsena  discouraged  the  idea  of  hanging  this 
out  on  the  street ;  and,  as  a  compromise,  it  was 
finally  placed  at  the  end  of  the  operating-room, 

7 


Marsena 


where  for  years  thereafter  it  served  for  the  sit 
ters  to  stare  at  when  their  skulls  had  been 
clasped  in  the  iron  head-rest  and  they  had  been 
adjured  to  look  pleasant.  A  more  modest  and 
conventional  announcement  of  the  new  firm's 
existence  was  put  outside,  and  Octavius  accept 
ed  it  as  proof  that  the  liberal  arts  were  at  last 
established  within  its  borders  on  a  firm  and 
lucrative  basis. 

The  head  of  the  firm  was  not  much  altered 
by  this  great  wave  of  prosperity.  He  had  been 
drilled  by  adversity  into  such  careful  ways  with 
his  wardrobe  that  he  did  not  need  to  get  any 
new  clothes.  Although  the  villagers,  always 
kindly,  sought  now  with  cordial  effusiveness  to 
make  him  feel  one  of  themselves,  and  although 
he  accepted  all  their  invitations  and  showed 
himself  at  every  public  meeting  in  his  capacity 
as  a  representative  and  even  prominent  citizen, 
yet  the  heart  of  his  mystery  remained  un- 
plucked.  Marsena  was  too  busy  in  these  days 
to  be  much  upon  the  streets.  When  he  did 
appear  he  still  walked  alone,  slowly  and  with 
an  air  of  settled  gloom.  He  saluted  such  pas 
sers-by  as  he  knew  in  stately  silence.  If  they 
stopped  him  or  joined  him  in  his  progress,  at  the 
most  he  would  talk  sparingly  of  the  weather  and 
the  roads. 

8 


Marsena 


Neither  at  the  fortnightly  sociables  of  the 
Ladies'  Church  Mite  Society,  given  in  turn  at 
the  more  important  members'  homes,  nor  in  the 
more  casual  social  assemblages  of  the  place,  did 
Marsena  ever  unbend.  It  was  not  that  he  held 
himself  aloof,  as  some  others  did,  from  the 
simple  amusements  of  the  evening.  He  nev 
er  shrank  from  bearing  his  part  in  "pillow," 
"  clap  in  and  clap  out,"  "post-office,"  or  in 
whatever  other  game  was  to  be  played,  and  he 
went  through  the  kissing  penalties  and  rewards 
involved  without  apparent  aversion.  It  was 
also  to  be  noted,  in  fairness,  that,  if  any  one 
smiled  at  him  full  in  the  face,  he  instantly  smiled 
in  response.  But  neither  smile  nor  chaste  sa 
lute  served  to  lift  for  even  the  fleeting  instant 
that  veil  of  reserve  which  hung  over  him. 

Those  who  thought  that  by  having  Marsena 
Pulford  take  their  pictures  they  would  get  on 
more  intimate  terms  with  him  fell  into  grievous 
error.  He  was  more  sententious  and  unap 
proachable  in  his  studio,  as  he  called  it,  than 
anywhere  else.  In  the  old  days,  before  the 
partnership,  when  he  did  everything  him 
self,  his  manner  in  the  reception-room  down 
stairs,  where  he  showed  samples,  gave  the  prices 
of  frames,  and  took  orders,  had  no  equal  for 
formal  frigidity — except  his  subsequent  demean- 


Marsena 


or  in  the  operating-room  upstairs.  The  girls 
used  to  declare  that  they  always  emerged  from 
the  gallery  with  "  cold  shivers  all  over  them." 
This,  however,  did  not  deter  them  from  going 
again,  repeatedly,  after  the  outbreak  of  the  war 
had  started  up  the  universal  notion  of  being 
photographed. 

When  the  new  partner  came  in,  in  this  April 
of  1862,  Marsena  was  able  to  devote  himself 
exclusively  to  the  technical  business  of  the 
camera  and  the  dark-room,  on  the  second  floor. 
He  signalled  this  change  by  wearing  now  every 
day  an  old  russet-colored  velveteen  jacket, 
which  we  had  never  seen  before.  This  made 
him  look  even  more  romantically  melancholy 
and  picturesque  than  ever,  and  revived  some 
thing  of  the  fascinating  curiosity  as  to  his  hid 
den  past ;  but  it  did  nothing  toward  thawing 
the  ice-bound  shell  which  somehow  came  at 
every  point  between  him  and  the  good-fellow 
ship  of  the  community. 

The  partnership  was  scarcely  a  week  old 
when  something  happened.  The  new  partner, 
standing  behind  the  little  show-case  in  the 
reception-room,  transacted  some  preliminary 
business  with  two  customers  who  had  come  in. 
Then,  while  the  sound  of  their  ascending  foot 
steps  was  still  to  be  heard  on  the  stairs,  he  has- 
10 


Marsetia 


tily  left  his  post  and  entered  the  little  work 
room  at  the  back  of  the  counter. 

"  You  couldn't  guess  in  a  baker's  dozen  of 
tries  who's  gone  upstairs,"  he  said  to  the  boy. 
Without  waiting  for  even  one  effort,  he  added  : 
"It's  the  Parmalee  girl,  and  Dwight  Ransom's 
with  her,  and  he's  got  a  Lootenant's  uniform 
on,  and  they're  goin'  to  be  took  together  !  " 

"What  of  it?"  asked  the  unimaginative 
boy.  He  was  bending  over  a  crock  of  nitric 
acid,  transferring  from  it  one  by  one  to  a  tub 
of  water  a  lot  of  spoiled  glass  plates.  The 
sickening  fumes  from  the  jar,  and  the  sting  of 
the  acid  on  his  cracked  skin,  still  further  dimin 
ished  his  interest  in  contemporary  sociology. 
"  Well,  what  of  it?"  he  repeated,  sulkily. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  the  new  partner, 
in  a  listless,  disappointed  way.  "  It  seemed 
kind  o'  curious,  that's  all.  Holdin'  her  head 
up  as  high  in  the  air  as  she  does,  you  wouldn't 
think  she'd  so  much  as  look  at  an  ordinary 
fellow  like  Dwight  Ransom." 

"  I  suppose  this  is  a  free  country,"  remarked 
the  boy,  rising  to  rest  his  back. 

"Oh,  my,  yes,"  returned  the  other;   "if 

she's   pleased,   I'm   quite   agreeable.     And — I 

don't  know,  too — I  daresay  she's  gettin'  pretty 

well  along.     May  be  she  thinks  they  ain't  any 

ii 


Marsena 


too  much  time  to  lose,  and  is  making  a  grab 
at  what  comes  handiest.  Still,  I  should  'a' 
thought  she  could  'a'  done  better  than  Dwight. 
I  worked  with  him  for  a  spell  once,  you 
know." 

There  seemed  to  be  very  few  people  with 
whom  Newton  Shull  had  not  at  one  time  or 
another  worked.  Apparently  there  was  no 
craft  or  calling  which  he  did  not  know  some 
thing  about.  The  old  phrase,  "Jack  of  all 
trades,"  must  surely  have  been  coined  in 
prophecy  for  him.  He  had  turned  up  in  Oc- 
tavius  originally,  some  years  before,  as  the 
general  manager  of  a  "  Whaler's  Life  on  the 
Rolling  Deep"  show,  which  was  specially 
adapted  for  moral  exhibitions  in  connection 
with  church  fairs.  Calamity,  however,  had 
long  marked  this  enterprise  for  its  own,  and  at 
our  village  its  career  culminated  under  the 
auspices  of  a  sheriffs  officer.  The  boat,  the 
harpoons,  the  panorama  sheet  and  rollers,  the 
whale's  jaw,  the  music-box  with  its  nautical 
tunes — these  were  sold  and  dispersed.  Newton 
Shull  remained,  and  began  work  as  a  mender 
of  clocks.  Incidentally,  he  cut  out  stencil- 
plates  for  farmers  to  label  their  cheese- boxes 
with,  and  painted  or  gilded  ornamental  designs 
on  chair-backs  through  perforated  paper  pat- 

12 


Marsena 


terns.  For  a  time  he  was  a  maker  of  children's 
sleds.  In  slack  seasons  he  got  jobs  to  help  the 
druggist,  the  tinsmith,  the  dentist,  or  the  Town 
Clerk,  and  was  equally  at  home  with  each.  He 
was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Octavius  Phil 
harmonics,  and  offered  to  play  any  instrument 
they  liked,  though  his  preference  was  for  what 
he  called  the  bull  fiddle.  He  spoke  often  of 
having  travelled  as  a  bandsman  with  a  circus. 
We  boys  believed  that  he  was  quite  capable  of 
riding  a  horse  bareback  as  well. 

When  Marsena  Pulford,  then,  decided  that 
he  must  have  some  help,  Newton  Shull  was 
obviously  the  man.  How  the  arrangement 
came  to  take  the  form  of  a  partnership  was 
never  explained,  save  on  the  conservative  vil 
lage  theory  that  Marsena  must  have  reasoned 
that  a  partner  would  be  safer  with  the  cash-box 
downstairs,  while  he  was  taking  pictures  up 
stairs,  than  a  mere  hired  man.  More  likely  it 
grew  out  of  their  temperamental  affinity.  Shull 
was  also  a  man  of  grave  and  depressed  moods 
(as,  indeed,  is  the  case  with  all  who  play  the 
bass  viol),  only  his  melancholy  differed  from 
Marsena' s  in  being  of  a  tirelessly  garrulous 
character.  This  was  not  always  an  advantage. 
When  customers  came  in,  in  the  afternoon,  it 
was  his  friendly  impulse  to  engage  them  in 

n 


Marsena 


conversation  at  such  length  that  frequently  the 
light  would  fail  altogether  before  they  got  up 
stairs.  He  recognized  this  tendency  as  a  fault, 
and  manfully  combated  it — leaving  the  recep 
tion-room  with  abruptness  at  the  earliest  pos 
sible  moment,  and  talking  to  the  boy  in  the 
work-room  instead. 

Mr.  Shull  was  a  short,  round  man,  with  a 
beard  which  was  beginning  to  show  gray  under 
the  lip.  His  reception-room  manners  were  ur 
bane  and  persuasive  to  a  degree,  and  he  par 
ticularly  excelled  in  convincing  people  that  the 
portraits  of  themselves,  which  Marsena  had  sent 
down  to  him  in  the  dummy  to  be  dried  and 
varnished,  and  which  they  hated  vehemently  at 
first  sight,  were  really  unique  and  precious  works 
of  art.  He  had  also  much  success  in  inducing 
country  folks  to  despise  the  cheap  ferrotype 
which  they  had  intended  to  have  made,  and 
to  adventure  upon  the  costlier  ambrotype,  da 
guerreotype,  or  even  photograph  instead.  If 
they  did  not  go  away  with  a  family  album  or  an 
assortment  of  frames  that  would  come  in  handy 
as  well,  it  was  no  fault  of  his. 

He  made  these  frames  himself,  on  a  bench 
which  he  had  fitted  up  in  the  work-room.  Here 
he  constructed  show-cases,  too,  cut  out  mats  and 
mounts,  and  did  many  other  things  as  adjuncts 

14 


Marsena 


to  the  business,  which  honest  Marsena  had  never 
dreamed  of. 

"  Yes,"  he  went  on  now,  "  I  carried  a  chain 
for  Dwight  the  best  part  o'  one  whole  summer, 
when  he  was  layin'  levels  for  that  Nedahma  Val 
ley  Railroad  they  were  figurin'  on  buildin'. 
Guess  they  ruther  let  him  in  over  that  job — 
though  he  paid  me  fair  enough.  It  ain't  much 
of  a  business,  that  surveyin'.  You  spend  about 
half  your  time  in  findin'  out  for  people  the  way 
they  could  do  things  if  they  only  had  the  money 
to  do  'em,  and  the  other  half  in  settlin'  miser 
able  farmers'  squabbles  about  the  boundaries  of 
their  land.  You've  got  to  pay  a  man  day's 
wages  for  totin'  round  your  chain  and  axe  and 
stakes — and,  as  like  as  not,  you  never  get  even 
that  money  back,  let  alone  any  pay  for  yourself. 
I  know  something  about  a  good  many  trades, 
and  I  say  surveyin'  is  pretty  nigh  the  poorest 
of 'email." 

"  George  Washington  was  a  surveyor,"  com 
mented  the  boy,  stooping  down  to  his  task  once 
more. 

"  Yes,"  admitted  Mr.  Shull ;  *'  so  he  was,  for 
a  fact.  But  then  he  had  influence  enough  to 
get  government  jobs.  I  don't  say  there  ain't 
money  in  that.  If  Dwight,  now,  could  get  a 
berth  on  the  canal,  say,  it  'ud  be  a  horse  of 


Marsena 


another  color.  They  say,  there's  some  places 
there  that  pay  as  much  as  $3  a  day.  That's  how 
George  Washington  got  his  start,  and,  besides,  he 
owned  his  own  house  and  lot  to  begin  with. 
But  you'll  notice  that  he  dropped  survey  in'  like 
a  hot  potato  the  minute  there  was  any  soldierin' 
to  do.  He  knew  which  side  his  bread  was  but 
tered  on  !  " 

"  Well,"  said  the  boy,  slapping  the  last  plates 
sharply  into  the  tub,  "  that's  just  what  Dwight's 
doin'  too,  ain't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Mr.  Shull  conceded  ;  "but  it  ain't 
the  same  thing.  You  won't  find  Dwight  Ran 
som  gettin'  to  be  a  general,  or  much  of  anything 
else.  He's  a  nice  fellow  enough,  in  his  way, 
of  course  ;  but,  somehow,  after  it's  all  said  and 
done,  there  ain't  much  to  him.  I  always  sort 
o'  felt,  when  I  was  out  with  him,  that  by  good 
rights  I  ought  to  be  working  the  level  and  him 
hammerin'  in  the  stakes." 

The  boy  sniffed  audibly  as  he  bore  away  the 
acid-jar.  Mr.  Shull  went  over  to  the  bench, 
and  took  up  a  chisel  with  a  meditative  air.  After 
a  moment  he  lifted  his  head  and  listened,  with 
aroused  interest  written  all  over  his  face. 

There  had  been  audible  from  the  floor  above, 
at  intervals,  the  customary  noises  of  the  camera 
being  wheeled  about  to  different  points  under 
16 


Marsena 


the  skylight.  There  came  echoing  downward 
now  quite  other  and  most  unfamiliar  sounds — 
the  clatter  of  animated,  even  gay,  conversation, 
punctuated  by  frank  outbursts  of  laughter.  New 
ton  Shull  could  hardly  believe  his  ears  :  but  they 
certainly  did  tell  him  that  there  were  three  par 
ties  to  that  merriment  overhead.  It  was  so 
strange  that  he  laid  aside  the  chisel,  and  tiptoed 
out  into  the  reception-room,  with  a  notion  of 
listening  at  the  stair  door.  Then  he  even  more 
hurriedly  ran  back  again.  They  were  coming 
downstairs. 

It  might  have  been  a  whole  wedding-party 
that  trooped  down  the  resounding  stairway,  the 
voices  rising  above  the  clump  of  Dwight's  artil 
lery  boots  and  sword  on  step  after  step,  and 
overflowed  into  the  stuffy  little  reception-room 
with  a  cheerful  tumult  of  babble.  The  new 
partner  and  the  boy  looked  at  each  other,  then 
directed  a  joint  stare  of  bewilderment  toward 
the  door. 

Julia  Parmalee  had  pushed  her  way  behind 
the  show-case,  and  stood  in  the  entrance  to  the 
work-room,  peering  about  her  with  an  affectation 
of  excited  curiosity  which  she  may  have  thought 
pretty  and  playful,  but  which  the  boy,  at  least, 
held  to  be  absurd. 

She  had  been  talking  thirteen  to  the  dozen  all 


Marsena 


the  time.  "  Oh,  I  really  must  see  everything  !  " 
she  rattled  on  now.  "  If  I  could  be  trusted 
alone  in  the  dark-room  with  you,  Mr.  Pulford, 
I  surely  may  be  allowed  to  explore  all  these 
minor  mysteries.  Oh,  I  see,"  she  added,  glanc 
ing  round,  and  incidentally  looking  quite 
through  Mr.  Shull  and  the  boy,  as  if  they  had 
been  transparent :  "  here's  where  the  frames  and 
the  washing  are  done.  How  interesting  !  " 

What  really  was  interesting  was  the  face  of 
Marsena  Pulford,  discernible  in  the  shadow  over 
her  shoulder.  No  one  in  Octavius  had  ever  seen 
such  a  beaming  smile  on  his  saturnine  counte 
nance  before. 


18 


II. 


NEXT  to  the  War,  the  chief  topic  of  inter 
est  and  conversation  in  Octavius  at  this 
time  was  easily  Miss  Julia  Parmalee. 

To  begin  with,  her  family  had  for  two  gen 
erations  or  more  been  the  most  important  fam 
ily  in  the  village.  When  Lafayette  stopped 
here  to  receive  an  address  of  welcome,  on  his 
tour  through  the  State  in  1825,  it  was  a  Par 
malee  who  read  that  address,  and  who  also,  as 
tradition  runs,  made  on  his  own  account  sev 
eral  remarks  to  the  hero  in  the  French  lan 
guage,  all  of  which  were  understood.  The 
elder  son  of  this  man  has  a  secure  place  in  his 
tory.  He  is  the  Judge  Parmalee  whose  portrait 
hangs  in  the  Court  House,  and  whose  learned 
work  on  "  The  Treaties  of  the  Tuscarora  Na 
tion,"  handsomely  bound  in  morocco,  used  to 
have  a  place  of  honor  on  the  parlor  table  of 
every  well-to-do  and  cultured  Octavius  home. 

This  Judge  was  a  banker,  too,  and  did 
pretty  well  for  himself  in  a  number  of  other 
commercial  paths.  He  it  was  who  built  the 

19 


Marsena 


big  Parmalee  house,  with  a  stone  wall  in  front 
and  the  great  garden  and  orchard  stretching 
back  to  the  next  street,  and  the  buff-colored 
statues  on  either  side  of  the  gravelled  walk, 
where  the  Second  National  Dearborn  County 
Bank  now  stands.  The  Judge  had  no  chil 
dren,  and,  on  his  widow's  death,  the  property 
went  to  his  much  younger  brother  Charles, 
who,  from  having  been  as  a  stripling  on  some 
forgotten  Governor's  staff,  bore  through  life 
the  title  of  Colonel  in  the  local  speech. 

This  Colonel  Parmalee  had  a  certain  dis 
tinction,  too,  though  not  of  a  martial  charac 
ter.  His  home  was  in  New  York,  and  for 
many  years  Octavius  never  laid  eyes  on  him. 
He  was  understood  to  occupy  a  respected  place 
among  American  men  of  letters,  though  exactly 
what  he  wrote  did  not  come  to  our  knowledge. 
It  was  said  that  he  had  been  at  Brook  Farm. 
I  have  not  been  able  to  find  any  one  who  re 
members  him  there,  but  the  report  is  of  use  as 
showing  the  impression  of  superior  intellectual 
force  which  he  created,  even  by  hearsay,  in  his 
native  village.  When  he  finally  came  back  to 
us,  to  play  his  part  as  the  head  of  the  Parmalee 
house,  we  saw  at  intervals,  when  the  sun  was 
warm  and  the  sidewalks  were  dry,  the  lean  and 
bent  figure  of  an  old  man,  with  a  very  yellow 
20 


Marsena 


face  and  a  sharp-edged  brown  wig,  moving 
feebly  about  with  a  thick  gray  shawl  over  his 
shoulders.  His  housekeeper  was  an  elderly 
maiden  cousin,  who  seemed  never  to  come  out 
at  all,  whether  the  sun  was  shining  or  not. 

There  were  three  or  four  of  the  Colonel's 
daughters — all  tall,  well-made  girls,  with  strik 
ingly  dark  skins,  and  what  we  took  to  be  gyp- 
syish  faces.  Their  appearance  certainly  bore 
out  the  rumor  that  their  mother  had  been  an 
opera  -  singer — some  said  an  Italian,  others  a 
lady  of  Louisiana  Creole  extraction.  No  infor 
mation,  except  that  she  was  dead,  ever  came 
to  hand  about  this  person.  Her  daughters, 
however,  were  very  much  in  evidence.  They 
seemed  always  to  wear  white  dresses,  and  they 
were  always  to  be  seen  somewhere,  either  on 
their  lawn  playing  croquet,  or  in  the  streets,  or 
at  the  windows  of  their  house.  The  conscious 
ness  of  their  existence  pervaded  the  whole  vil 
lage  from  morning  till  night.  To  watch  their 
goings  and  comings,  and  to  speculate  upon  the 
identity  and  business  of  the  friends  from  strange 
parts  who  were  continually  arriving  to  visit 
them,  grew  to  be  quite  the  standing  occupation 
of  the  idler  portion  of  the  community. 

Before  such  of  our  young  people  as  naturally 
took  the  lead  in  these  matters  had  had  time  to 
21 


Mar  sen  a 


decide  how  best  to  utilize  for  the  general  good 
this  influx  of  beauty,  wealth,  and  ancestral 
dignity,  the  village  was  startled  by  an  unlooked- 
for  occurrence.  A  red  carpet  was  spread  one 
forenoon  from  the  curb  to  the  doorway  of  the 
Episcopal  Church  :  the  old-fashioned  Parmalee 
carriage  turned  out,  with  its  driver  clasping 
white  reins  in  white  cotton  gloves ;  we  had  a 
confused  glimpse  of  the  dark  Parmalee  girls 
with  bouquets  in  their  hands,  and  dressed 
rather  more  in  white  than  usual :  and  then  as 
tonished  Octavius  learned  that  two  of  them 
had  been  married,  right  there  under  its  very 
eyes,  and  had  departed  with  their  husbands. 
It  gave  an  angry  twist  to  the  discovery  to  find 
that  the  bridegrooms  were  both  strangers, 
presumably  from  New  York. 

This  episode  had  the  figurative  effect  of 
doubling  or  trebling  the  height  of  that  stone 
wall  which  stood  between  the  Parmalee  place 
and  the  public.  Such  budding  hopes  and 
projects  of  intimacy  as  our  villagers  may  have 
entertained  toward  these  polished  new-comers 
fell  nipped  and  lifeless  on  the  stroke.  Shortly 
afterward — that  is  to  say,  in  the  autumn  of 
1860 — the  family  went  away,  and  the  big  house 
was  shut  up.  News  came  in  time  that  the 
Colonel  was  dead  :  something  was  said  about 

22 


Marsena 


another  daughter's  marriage ;  then  the  war 
broke  out,  and  gave  us  other  things  to  think  of. 
We  forgot  all  about  the  Parmalees. 

It  must  have  been  in  the  last  weeks  of  1861 
that  our  vagrant  attention  was  recalled  to  the 
subject  by  the  appearance  in  the  village  of  an 
elderly  married  couple  of  servants,  who  took 
up  their  quarters  in  the  long  empty  mansion, 
and  began  fitting  it  once  more  for  habitation. 
They  set  all  the  chimneys  smoking,  shov 
elled  the  garden  paths  clear  of  snow,  laid  in 
huge  supplies  of  firewood,  vegetables,  and  the 
like,  and  turned  the  whole  place  inside  out  in  a 
vigorous  convulsion  of  housecleaning.  Their 
preparations  were  on  such  a  bold,  large  scale 
that  we  assumed  the  property  must  have  passed 
to  some  voluminous  collateral  branch  of  the 
family,  hitherto  unknown  to  us.  It  came  in 
deed  to  be  stated  among  us,  with  an  air  of  cer 
tainty,  that  a  remote  relation  named  Amos  or 
Erasmus  Parmalee,  with  eight  or  more  children 
and  a  numerous  adult  household,  was  coming 
to  live  there.  The  legend  of  this  wholly 
mythical  personage  had  nearly  a  fortnight's 
vogue,  and  reached  a  point  of  distinctness 
where  we  clearly  understood  that  the  coming 
stranger  was  a  violent  secessionist.  This 
seemed  to  open  up  a  troubled  and  sinister  pros- 

23 


Marsena 


pect  before  loyal  Octavius,  and  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  plain  talk  in  the  barroom  of  the 
Excelsior  Hotel  as  to  how  this  impending 
crisis  should  be  met. 

It  was  just  after  New  Year's  that  our  suspense 
was  ended.  The  new  Parmalees  came,  and 
Octavius  noted  with  a  sort  of  disappointed  sur 
prise  that  they  turned  out  to  be  merely  a  shorn 
and  trivial  remnant  of  the  old  Parmalees. 
They  were  in  fact  only  a  couple  of  women — 
the  elderly  maiden  cousin  who  had  presided 
before  over  the  Colonel's  household,  and  the 
youngest  of  his  daughters,  by  name  Miss  Julia. 
What  was  more,  word  was  now  passed  round 
upon  authority  that  these  were  the  sole  remain 
ing  members  of  the  family — that  there  never 
had  been  any  Amos  or  Erasmus  Parmalee  at 
all. 

The  discovery  cast  the  more  heroic  of  our 
village  home-guards  into  a  temporary  depres 
sion.  It  could  hardly  have  been  otherwise, 
for  here  were  all  their  fine  and  strong  resolves, 
their  publicly  registered  vows  about  scowling  at 
the  odious  Southern  sympathizer  in  the  street, 
about  a  "  horning  "  party  outside  his  house  at 
night,  about,  perhaps,  actually  riding  him  on  a 
rail — all  brought  to  nothing.  A  less  earnest 
body  of  men  might  have  suspected  in  the  situa- 

24 


Marsena 


tion  some  elements  of  the  ridiculous.  They  let 
themselves  down  gently,  however,  and  with  a 
certain  dignified  sense  of  consolation  that  they 
had,  at  all  events,  shown  unmistakably  how 
they  would  have  dealt  with  Amos  or  Erasmus 
Parmalee  if  there  had  been  such  a  man,  and  he 
had  moved  to  Octavius  and  had  ventured  to 
flaunt  his  rebel  sentiments  in  their  outraged 
faces. 

The  village,  as  a  whole,  consoled  itself  on 
more  tangible  grounds.  It  has  been  stated 
that  Miss  Julia  Parmalee  arrived  at  the  family 
homestead  in  early  January.  Before  April  had 
brought  the  buds  and  birds,  this  young  woman 
had  become  President  of  the  St.  Mark's  Episco 
pal  Ladies'  Aid  Society ;  had  organized  a  local 
branch  of  the  Sanitary  Commission,  and  as 
sumed  active  control  of  all  its  executive  and 
clerical  functions ;  had  committed  the  princi 
pal  people  of  the  community  to  holding  a  grand 
festival  and  fair  in  May  for  the  Field  Hospital 
and  nurse  fund ;  had  exhibited  in  the  chief 
store  window  on  Main  Street  a  crayon  por 
trait  of  her  late  father,  and  four  water-color 
drawings  of  European  scenery,  all  her  own 
handiwork  ;  had  published  over  her  signature, 
in  the  Thessaly  Batmer  of  Liberty,  an  original 
and  spirited  poem  on  "  Pale  Columbia,  Shriek 

25 


Mar  sen  a 


to  Arms  !  "  which  no  one  could  read  without 
patriotic  thrills;  and  had  been  reported,  on 
more  or  less  warrant  of  appearances,  to  be  en 
gaged  to  four  different  young  men  of  the  place. 
Truly  a  remarkable  young  woman  ! 

We  were  only  able  in  a  dim  kind  of  way  to 
identify  her  with  one  of  the  group  of  girls  in 
white  dresses  whom  the  village  had  stared  at 
and  studied  from  a  distance  two  years  before. 
There  was  no  mystery  about  it,  however  :  she 
was  the  youngest  of  them.  They  had  all  looked 
so  much  alike,  with  their  precocious  growth, 
their  olive  skins  and  foreign  features,  that  we 
were  quite  surprised  to  find  now  that  this  one, 
regarded  by  herself,  must  be  a  great  deal 
younger  than  the  others.  Perhaps  it  was  only 
our  rustic  shyness  which  had  imputed  to  the 
sisterhood,  in  that  earlier  experience,  the  haut 
eur  and  icy  reserve  of  the  rich  and  exclusive. 
We  recognized  now  that  if  the  others  were  at 
all  like  Julia,  we  had  made  an  absurd  mistake. 
It  was  impossible  that  anyone  could  be  freer 
from  arrogance  or  pretence  than  Octavius  found 
her  to  be.  There  were  some,  indeed,  who 
deemed  her  emancipation  almost  too  complete. 

Some  there  were,  too,  who  denied  that  she 
was   beautiful,    or   even    very   good  -  looking. 
There  is  an  old  daguerreotype  of  her  as  she  was 
26 


Marsena 


in  those  days — or  rather  as  she  seemed  to  be  to 
the  unskilled  sunbeams  of  the  sixties — which 
gives  these  censorious  people  the  lie  direct.  It 
is  true  that  her  hair  is  confined  in  a  net  at 
the  sides  and  drawn  stiffly  across  her  temples 
from  the  parting.  The  full  throat  rises  sheer 
from  a  flat  horizon  of  striped  dress  goods,  and 
is  offered  no  relief  whatever  by  the  wide  fall 
ing- away  collar  of  coarse  lace.  And  oh  !  the 
strangeness  of  that  frock  !  The  shoulder  seams 
are  to  be  looked  for  half-way  down  the  upper 
arm,  the  sleeves  swell  themselves  out  into  shape 
less  bags,  the  waist  front  might  be  the  cover  of 
a  chair,  of  a  guitar,  of  the  documents  in  a  cor 
poration  suit — of  anything  under  the  sun  rather 
than  the  form  of  a  charming  girl.  Yet,  when 
you  look  at  this  thin  old  picture,  all  the  same, 
you  feel  that  you  understand  how  it  was  that 
Julia  Parmalee  took  the  shine  out  of  all  the 
other  girls  in  Octavius. 

This  is  the  likeness  of  her  which  always 
seemed  to  me  the  best,  but  Marsena  Pulford 
made  a  great  many  others  as  well.  When  you 
reflect,  indeed,  that  his  output  of  portraits  of 
Julia  Parmalee  was  limited  in  time  to  the  two 
months  of  April  and  May,  their  number  sug 
gests  that  he  could  hardly  have  done  anything 
else  the  while. 


Marsena 


The  first  of  this  large  series  of  pictures  was 
the  one  which  Marsena  liked  least.  It  is  true 
that  Julia  looked  well  in  it,  standing  erect, 
with  a  proud,  fine  backward  tilt  to  her  dark 
face  and  a  delicately  formed  white  hand  resting 
gracefully  on  the  back  of  a  chair.  But  it  hap 
pened  that  in  that  chair  was  seated  Lieut. 
Dwight  Ransom,  all  spick  and  span  in  his  new 
uniform,  with  his  big  gauntlets  and  sword  hilt 
brought  prominently  forward,  and  with  a  kind 
of  fatuous  smile  on  his  ruddy  face,  as  if  he  felt 
the  presence  of  those  fair  fingers  on  the  chair- 
back,  so  teasingly  close  to  his  shoulder-strap. 

Marsena,  in  truth,  had  a  strong  impulse  to 
run  a  destroying  thumbnail  over  the  seated  fig 
ure  on  this  plate,  when  the  action  of  the  de 
veloper  began  to  reveal  its  outlines  under  the 
faint  yellow  light  in  the  dark-room.  Of  all  the 
myriad  pictures  he  had  washed  and  drained 
and  nursed  in  their  wet  growth  over  this  tank, 
no  other  had  ever  stirred  up  in  his  breast  such 
a  swift  and  sharp  hostility.  He  lavished  the 
deadly  cyanide  upon  that  portion  of  the  plate, 
too,  with  grim  unction,  and  noted  the  results 
with  a  scornful  curl  on  his  lip.  Like  his  part 
ner  downstairs,  he  was  wondering  what  on 
earth  possessed  Miss  Parmalee  to  take  up  with  a 
Dwight  Ransom.  The  frown  was  still  on  his 
28 


Mcir  sen  a 


brow  when  he  opened  the  dark-room  door. 
Then  he  started  back,  flushed  red,  and  labored 
at  an  embarrassed  smile.  Miss  Parmalee  had 
left  her  place,  and  stood  right  in  front  of  him, 
so  near  that  he  almost  ran  against  her.  She 
beamed  confidently  and  reassuringly  upon  him. 

"  Oh,  I  want  to  come  in  and  see  you  do 
all  that,"  she  exclaimed,  with  vivacity.  "  It 
didn't  occur  to  me  till  after  you'd  shut  the 
door,  or  I'd  have  asked  to  come  in  with  you. 
I  have  the  greatest  curiosity  about  all  these 
matters.  Oh,  it  is  all  done  ?  That's  too  bad  ! 
But  you  can  make  another  one — and  that  I  can 
see  from  the  beginning.  You  know,  I'm  some 
thing  of  an  artist  myself;  I've  taken  lessons  for 
years — and  this  all  interests  me  so  much  !  No, 
Lieutenant  !  " — she  called  out  from  where  she 
was  standing  just  inside  the  open  door,  at 
sound  of  her  companion's  rising — "  you  stay 
where  you  are  !  There's  going  to  be  another, 
and  it's  such  trouble  to  get  you  posed  properly. 
Try  and  keep  exactly  as  you  were  !  ' ' 

Thus  it  happened  that  she  stood  very  close 
to  Marsena,  as  he  took  out  another  plate, 
flooded  it  with  the  sweet-smelling,  pungent 
collodion,  and,  with  furtive  precautions  against 
the  light,  lowered  it  down  into  the  silver  bath. 
Then  he  had  to  shut  the  door,  and  she  was  still 
29 


Mar  sen  a 


there  just  beside  him.  He  heard  himself  pre 
tending  to  explain  the  processes  of  the  films  to 
her,  but  his  mind  was  concentrated  instead  upon 
a  suggestion  of  perfume  which  she  had  brought 
into  the  reeking  little  cupboard  of  a  room,  and 
which  mingled  languorously  with  the  scents  of 
ether  and  creosote  in  the  air.  He  had  known 
her  by  sight  for  but  a  couple  of  months  ;  he 
had  been  introduced  to  her  only  a  week  or  so 
ago,  and  that  in  the  most  casual  way  ;  yet, 
strange  enough,  he  could  feel  his  hand  trem 
bling  as  it  perfunctorily  moved  the  plate  dipper 
up  and  down  in  the  bath. 

A  gentle  voice  fell  upon  the  darkness.  "  Do 
you  know,  Mr.  Pulford,"  it  murmured,  "  I 
felt  sure  that  you  were  an  artist,  the  very  first 
time  I  saw  you." 

Marsena  heaved  a  long  sigh — a  sigh  with  a 
tremulous  catch  in  it,  as  where  sorrow  and 
sweet  solace  should  meet.  "  I  did  start  out  to 
be  one,"  he  answered,  "but  I  —  I  never 
amounted  to  anything  at  it.  I  tried  for  years, 
but  I  wasn't  any  good.  I  had  to  give  it  up — 
at  last — and  take  to  this  instead." 

He  lifted  the  plate  with  caution,  bent  to 
look  obliquely  across  its  surface,  and  lowered  it 
again.  Then  all  at  once  he  turned  abruptly 
and  faced  her.  They  were  so  close  to  each 

30 


Marsena 


other  that  even  in  the  obscure  gloom  she  caught 
the  sudden  flash  of  resolution  in  his  eyes. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  never  told  any  other 
living  soul,"  he  said,  beginning  with  husky 
eagerness,  but  lapsing  now  into  grave  delib 
eration  of  emphasis:  "  I  hate — this  —  like 
pizen  !  ' ' 

In  the  silence  which  followed,  Marsena 
mechanically  took  the  plate  from  the  bath,  fas 
tened  it  in  the  holder,  and  stepped  to  the  door. 
Then  he  halted,  to  prolong  for  one  little  instant 
this  tender  spell  of  magic  which  had  stolen  over 
him.  Here,  in  the  close  darkness  beside  him, 
was  a  sorceress,  a  siren,  who  had  at  a  glance 
read  his  sore  heart's  deepest  secret — at  a  word 
drawn  the  confession  of  his  maimed  and  em 
bittered  pride.  It  was  like  being  shut  up  with 
an  angel,  who  was  also  a  beautiful  woman. 
Oh,  the  wonder  of  it !  Broad  sunlit  landscapes 
with  Italian  skies  seemed  to  be  forming  them 
selves  before  his  mind's  eye ;  his  soul  sang 
songs  within  him.  He  very  nearly  dropped 
the  plate-holder. 

The  soft,  hovering,  half  touch  of  a  hand 
upon  his  arm,  the  cool,  restful  tones  of  the 
voice  in  the  darkness,  came  to  complete  the 
witchery. 

"I  know,"   she  said,    "I  can   sympathize 


Marsena 


with  you.  I  also  had  my  dreams,  my  aspira 
tions.  But  you  are  wrong  to  think  that  you 
have  failed.  Why,  this  beautiful  work  of  yours, 
it  all  is  Art — pure  Art.  No  person  who  really 
knows  could  look  at  it  and  not  see  that.  No, 
Mr.  Pulford,  you  do  yourself  an  injustice ;  be 
lieve  me,  you  do.  Why,  you  couldn't  help 
being  an  artist  if  you  tried  ;  it's  born  in  you. 
It  shows  in  everything  you  do.  I  saw  it  from 
the  very  first." 

The  unmistakable  sound  of  Dwight  Ransom's 
large  artillery  boots  moving  on  the  floor  outside 
intervened  here,  and  Marsena  hurriedly  opened 
the  door.  The  Lieutenant  glanced  with  good- 
natured  raillery  at  the  couple  who  stood  re 
vealed,  blinking  in  the  sharp  light. 

"  One  of  my  legs  got  asleep,"  he  remarked, 
by  way  of  explanation,  "so  I  had  to  get  up 
and  stamp  around.  I  began  to  think,"  he 
added,  "that  you  folks  were  going  to  set  up 
housekeeping  in  there,  and  not  come  out  any 
more  at  all." 

"  Don't  be  vulgar,  if  you  please,"  said  Julia 
Parmalee,  with  a  dash  of  asperity  in  what  pur 
ported  to  be  a  bantering  tone.  "  We  were 
talking  of  matters  quite  beyond  you — of  Art,  if 
you  desire  to  know.  Mr.  Pulford  and  I  dis 
cover  that  we  have  a  great  many  opinions  and 

32 


Marsena 


sentiments  about  Art  in  common.  It  is  a  feel 
ing  that  no  one  can  understand  unless  they 
have  it. ' ' 

"  It's  the  same  with  getting  one's  leg  asleep," 
said  Dwight,  "  quite  the  same,  I  assure  you ;  " 
and  then  came  the  laughter  which  Newton  Shull 
heard  downstairs. 


33 


III. 


A  DAY  or  two  later  Battery  G  left  Octavius 
for  the  seat  of  war. 

It  was  not  nearly  so  imposing  an  event  as  a 
good  many  others  which  had  stirred  the  com 
munity  during  the  previous  twelve  months. 
There  were  already  two  regiments  in  the  field 
recruited  from  our  end  of  Dearborn  County, 
and  in  these  at  least  six  or  seven  companies 
were  made  up  wholly  of  Octavius  men.  There 
had  been  big  crowds,  with  speeches  and  music 
by  the  band,  to  see  them  off  at  the  old  depot. 

When  they  returned,  their  short  term  of  ser 
vice  having  expired,  there  were  still  more  fer 
vent  demonstrations,  to  which  zest  was  added 
by  the  knowledge  that  they  were  all  to  enlist 
again,  and  then  we  shortly  celebrated  their  sec 
ond  departure.  Some  there  were  who  returned 
in  mute  and  cold  finality — term  of  enlistment 
and  life  alike  cut  short — and  these  were  borne 
through  our  streets  with  sombre  martial  pagean 
try,  the  long  wail  of  the  funeral  march  reach 
ing  out  to  include  the  whole  valley  side  in  its 

34 


Marsena 


note  of  lamentation.  Besides  all  this,  hardly  a 
week  passed  that  those  of  us  who  hung  about 
the  station  could  not  see  a  train  full  of  troops 
on  their  way  to  or  from  the  South*  A  year  of 
these  experiences  had  left  us  seasoned  veterans 
in  sightseeing,  by  no  means  to  be  fluttered  by 
trifles. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  village  did  not  take 
Battery  G  very  seriously.  To  begin  with,  it 
mustered  only  some  dozen  men,  at  least  so  far 
as  our  local  contribution  went,  and  there  was 
a  feeling  that  we  couldn't  be  expected  to  go 
much  out  of  our  way  for  such  a  paltry  number. 
Then,  again,  an  artillery  force  was  somehow 
out  of  joint  with  our  notion  of  what  Octavius 
should  do  to  help  suppress  the  Rebellion.  In 
fantrymen  with  muskets  we  could  all  under 
stand — could  all  be,  if  necessary.  Many  of 
the  farmer  boys  round  about,  too,  made  good 
cavalrymen,  because  they  knew  both  how  to  ride 
and  how  to  groom  a  horse.  But  in  the  name 
of  all  that  was  mysterious,  why  artillerymen  ? 
There  had  never  been  a  cannon  within  fifty 
miles  of  Octavius ;  that  is,  since  the  Revolu 
tion.  Certainly  none  of  our  citizens  had  the 
least  idea  how  to  fire  one  off.  These  enlisted 
men  of  Battery  G  were  no  better  posted  than 
the  rest ;  it  would  take  them  a  three  days' 

35 


Marsena 


journey  to  reach  the  point  where  for  the  first 
time  they  were  to  see  their  strange  weapon  of 
warfare.  This  seemed  to  us  rather  foolish. 

Moreover,  there  was  a  government  proclama 
tion  just  out,  it  was  said,  discontinuing  further 
enlistments  and  disbanding  the  recruiting  of 
fices 'scattered  over  the  North.  This  appeared 
to  imply  that  the  war  was  about  over,  or  at 
least  that  they  had  more  soldiers  already  than 
they  knew  what  to  do  with.  There  were  some 
who  questioned  whether,  under  these  circum 
stances,  it  was  worth  while  for  Battery  G  to  go 
at  all. 

But  go  it  did,  and  at  the  last  moment  quite 
a  throng  of  people  found  themselves  gathered 
at  the  station  to  say  good- by.  A  good  many 
of  these  were  the  relations  and  friends  of  the 
dozen  ordinary  recruits,  who  would  not  even 
get  their  uniforms  and  swords  till  they  reached 
Tecumseh.  But  the  larger  portion,  I  should 
think,  had  come  on  account  of  Lieutenant  Ran 
som. 

Dwight  was  hail-fellow-well-met  with  more 
people  within  a  radius  of  twenty  miles  or  so, 
probably,  than  any  other  man  in  the  district. 
He  was  a  good-looking  young  man,  rather 
stocky  in  build  and  deeply  sunburned.  Through 
the  decent  months  of  the  year  he  was  always 

36 


Marsena 


out  of  doors,  either  tramping  over  the  country 
with  a  level  over  his  shoulder,  or  improving 
the  days  with  a  shotgun  or  fish  pole.  At  these 
seasons  he  was  generally  to  be  found  of  an 
evening  at  the  barber's  shop,  where  he  told 
more  new  stories  than  any  one  else.  When 
winter  came  his  chief  work  was  in  his  office, 
drawing  maps  and  plans.  He  let  his  beard 
grow  then,  and  spent  his  leisure  for  the  most 
part  playing  checkers  at  the  Excelsior  Hotel. 

His  habitual  free-and-easy  dress  and  amiable 
laxity  of  manners  tended  to  obscure  in  the  vil 
lage  mind  the  facts  that  he  came  from  one  of 
the  best  families  of  the  section,  that  he  had 
been  through  college,  and  that  he  had  some 
means  of  his  own.  His  mother  and  sisters  were 
very  respectable  people  indeed,  and  had  one 
of  the  most  expensive  pews  in  the  Episcopal 
Church.  It  was  not  observed,  however,  that 
D wight  ever  accompanied  them  thither  or  that 
he  devoted  much  of  his  time  to  their  society  at 
home.  It  began  to  be  remarked,  here  and 
there,  that  it  was  getting  to  be  about  time  for 
Dwight  Ransom  to  steady  down,  if  he  was  ever 
going  to.  Although  everybody  liked  him  and 
was  glad  to  see  him  about,  an  impression  was 
gradually  shaping  itself  that  he  never  would 
amount  to  much. 

37 


Mar  sen  a 


All  at  once  Dwight  staggered  the  public  con 
sciousness  by  putting  on  his  best  clothes  one 
Sunday  and  going  with  his  folks  to  church. 
Those  who  saw  him  on  the  way  there  could  not 
make  it  out  at  all,  except  on  the  hypothesis 
that  there  had  been  a  death  in  the  family. 
Those  who  encountered  him  upon  his  return 
from  the  sacred  edifice,  however,  found  a  clue 
to  the  mystery  ready  made.  He  was  walking 
home  with  Julia  Parmalee. 

There  were  others  whose  passionate  desire  it 
was  to  walk  home  with  Julia.  They  had  been 
enlivening  Octavius  with  public  displays  of 
their  rivalry  for  something  like  two  months 
when  Dwight  appeared  on  the  scene  as  a  com 
petitor.  Easy  -  going  as  he  was  in  ordinary 
matters,  he  revealed  himself  now  to  be  a  hust 
ler  in  the  courts  of  love.  It  took  him  but  a 
single  day  to  drive  the  teller  of  the  bank  from 
the  field.  The  Principal  of  the  Seminary,  a 
rising  young  lawyer,  and  the  head  bookkeeper 
at  the  freight -house,  severally  went  by  the  board 
within  a  fortnight. 

There  remained  old  Dr.  Conger's  son  Emory, 
who  was  of  a  tougher  fibre  and  gave  Dwight 
several  added  weeks  of  combat.  He  enjoyed 
the  advantage  of  having  nothing  whatever  to 
do.  He  possessed,  moreover,  a  remarkably 

38 


Marsena 


varied  wardrobe  and  white  hands,  and  loomed 
unique  among  the  males  of  our  town  in  his 
ability  to  play  on  the  piano.  With  such  aids  a 
young  man  may  go  far  in  a  quiet  neighborhood, 
and  for  a  time  Emory  Conger  certainly  seemed 
to  be  holding  his  own,  if  not  more.  His  dis 
comfiture,  when  it  came,  was  dramatic  in  its 
swift  completeness.  One  forenoon  we  saw 
Dwight  on  the  street  in  a  new  and  resplen 
dent  officer's  uniform,  and  learned  that  he  had 
been  commissioned  to  raise  a  battery.  That 
very  evening  the  doctor's  son  left  town,  and 
the  news  went  round  that  Lieutenant  Ransom 
was  engaged  to  Miss  Parmalee. 

An  impression  prevailed  that  Dwight  would 
not  have  objected  to  let  the  matter  rest  there. 
He  had  gained  his  point,  and  might  well  regard 
the  battery  and  the  War  itself  as  things  which 
had  served  their  purpose  and  could  now  be  dis 
pensed  with.  No  one  would  have  blamed  him 
much  for  feeling  that  way  about  it. 

But  this  was  not  Julia's  view.  She  adopted 
the  battery  for  her  own  while  it  was  still  little 
more  than  a  name,  and  swept  it  forward  with 
such  a  swirling  rush  of  enthusiasm  that  the  men 
were  all  enlisted,  the  organization  settled,  and 
the  date  of  departure  for  the  front  sternly  fas 
tened,  before  anybody  could  lay  a  hand  to  the 

39 


Ma  r sen a 


brakes.  Her  St.  Mark's  Ladies'  Aid  Society 
presented  Dvvight  with  a  sword.  Her  branch 
of  the  Sanitary  Commission  voted  to  entertain 
the  battery  with  a  hot  meal  in  the  depot  yard 
before  it  took  the  train.  We  have  seen  how 
she  went  and  had  herself  photographed  stand 
ing  proudly  behind  the  belted  and  martial 
Dwight.  After  these  things  it  was  impossible 
for  Battery  G  to  back  out. 

The  artillerymen  had  a  bright  blue  sky  and 
a  warm  sunlit  noontide  for  their  departure. 
Even  the  most  cynical  of  those  who  had  come 
to  see  them  off  yielded  toward  the  end  to  the 
genial  influence  of  the  weather  and  the  impulse 
of  good-fellowship,  and  joined  in  the  hand 
shaking  at  the  car  windows,  and  in  the  volley 
of  cheers  which  were  raised  as  the  train  drew 
slowly  out  of  the  yard. 

At  this  moment  the  ladies  of  the  Sanitary 
Commission  had  to  bestir  themselves  to  save  the 
remnant  of  oranges  and  sandwiches  on  their 
tables  from  the  swooping  raid  of  the  youth  of 
Octavius,  and,  what  with  administering  cuffs 
and  shakings,  and  keeping  their  garments  out 
of  the  way  of  coffee-cups  overturned  in  the 
scramble,  had  no  time  to  watch  Julia  Parmalee. 

The  men  gathered  in  the  yard  kept  her 
steadily  in  view,  however,  as  she  stood  promi- 
40 


Mar  sena 


nently  in  front  of  the  throng,  on  the  top  of  a 
baggage  truck,  and  waved  her  handkerchief  un 
til  the  train  had  dwindled  into  nothingness 
down  the  valley.  These  observers  had  an  eye 
also  on  three  young  men  who  had  got  as  near 
this  truck  as  possible.  Interest  in  Dwight  and 
his  battery  was  already  giving  place  to  curiosity 
as  to  which  of  these  three — the  bank-teller,  the 
freight-house  clerk,  or  the  rising  young  lawyer 
— would  win  the  chance  of  helping  Julia  down 
off  her  perch. 

No  one  was  prepared  for  what  really  hap 
pened.  Miss  Parmalee  turned  and  looked 
thoughtfully,  one  might  say  abstractedly,  about 
her.  Somehow  she  seemed  not  to  see  any  of 
the  hands  which  were  eagerly  uplifted  toward 
her.  Instead,  her  musing  gaze  roved  lightly 
over  the  predatory  scuffle  among  the  tables, 
over  the  ancient  depot  building,  over  the  as 
sembled  throng  of  citizens  in  the  background, 
then  wandered  nearer,  with  the  pretty  inconse 
quence  of  a  butterfly's  flight.  Of  course  it 
was  the  farewell  to  Dwight  which  had  left  that 
soft,  rosy  flush  in  her  dark,  round  cheeks. 
The  glance  that  she  was  sending  idly  fluttering 
here  and  there  did  not  seem  so  obviously  con 
nected  with  the  Lieutenant.  Of  a  sudden  it 
halted  and  went  into  a  smile. 


Marsena 


"  Oh,  Mr.  Pulford  !  May  I  trouble  you  ?  " 
she  said  in  very  distinct  tones,  bending  for 
ward  over  the  edge  of  the  truck,  and  holding 
forth  two  white  and  most  shapely  hands. 

Marsena  was  standing  fully  six  feet  away. 
Like  the  others,  he  had  been  looking  at  Miss 
Parmalee,  but  with  no  hint  of  expectation  in 
his  eyes.  This  abrupt  summons  seemed  to  sur 
prise  him  even  more  than  it  did  the  crowd. 
He  started,  changed  color,  fixed  a  wistful,  al 
most  pleading  stare  upon  the  sunlit  vacancy 
just  above  the  head  of  the  enchantress,  and  con 
fusedly  fumbled  with  his  glove  tips,  as  if  to 
make  bare  his  hands  for  this  great  function. 
Then,  straightening  himself,  he  slowly  moved 
toward  her  like  one  in  a  trance. 

The  rivals  edged  out  of  Marsena's  way  in 
dumfounded  silence,  as  if  he  had  been  walking 
in  his  sleep,  and  waking  were  dangerous.  He 
came  up,  made  a  formal  bow,  and  lifted  his 
gloved  hands  in  chivalrous  pretence  of  guiding 
the  graceful  little  jump  which  brought  Miss 
Parmalee  to  the  ground — all  with  a  pale,  mo 
tionless  face  upon  which  shone  a  solemn  ec 
stasy. 

It  was  Marsena's   habit,  when  out  of  doors, 
to  carry  his  right   hand   in   the  breast   of  his 
frock-coat.     As  he  made  an  angle  of  his  elbow 
42 


Marsena 


now,  from  sheer  force  of  custom,  Julia  promptly 
took  the  movement  as  a  proffer  of  physical  sup 
port,  and  availed  herself  of  it.  Marsena  felt 
himself  thrilling  from  top  to  toe  at  the  touch 
of  her  hand  upon  his  sleeve.  If  there  rose  in 
his  mind  an  awkward  consciousness  that  this 
sort  of  thing  was  unusual  in  Octavius  by  day 
light,  the  embarrassment  was  only  momentary. 
He  held  himself  proudly  erect,  and  marched 
out  of  the  depot  yard  with  Miss  Parmalee  on 
his  arm. 

As  Homer  Sage  remarked  that  evening  on 
the  stoop  of  the  Excelsior  Hotel,  this  event 
made  the  departure  of  Battery  G  seem  by  com 
parison  very  small  potatoes  indeed. 

It  was  impossible  for  the  twain  not  to  realize 
that  everybody  was  looking  at  them,  as  they 
made  their  way  up  the  shady  side  of  the  main 
street.  But  there  is  another  language  of  the 
hands  than  that  taught  in  deaf-mute  schools, 
and  Julia's  hand  seemed  to  tell  Marsena' s  arm 
distinctly  that  she  didn't  care  a  bit.  As  for 
him,  after  that  first  nervous  minute  or  two,  the 
experience  was  all  joy — joy  so  profound  and 
overwhelming  that  he  could  only  ponder  it  in 
dazzled  silence.  It  is  true  that  Julia  was  talk 
ing — rattling  on  with  sprightly  volubility  about 
all  sorts  of  things — but  to  Marsena  her  remarks 

43 


Miirsena 


no  more  invited  answers  than  does  so  much 
enthralling  music.  When  she  stopped  for  a 
breath  he  did  not  remember  what  she  had  been 
saying.  He  only  knew  how  he  felt. 

"  I  wish  you'd  come  straight  to  the  gallery 
with  me,"  he  said  ;  "  I'd  like  first-rate  to  make 
a  real  picture  of  you — by  yourself." 

"Well,  I  swow  !  "  remarked  Mr.  Newton 
Shall,  along  in  the  later  afternoon  ;  "I  didn't 
expect  we'd  make  our  salt  to-day,  with  Mar- 
sena  away  pretty  near  the  whole  forenoon,  and 
all  the  folks  down  to  the  depot,  and  here  it 
turns  out  way  the  best  day  we've  had  yet. 
Actually  had  to  send  people  away  !  " 

"  Guess  that  didn't  worry  him  much,"  com 
mented  the  boy,  from  where  he  sat  on  the 
work-bench  swinging  his  legs  in  idleness. 

Mr.  Shull  nodded  his  head  suggestively. 
"  No,  I  dare  say  not,"  he  said.  "  I  kind  o' 
l>egrudge  not  bein'  an  operator  myself,  when 
such  setters  as  that  come  in.  She  must  have 
been  up  there  a  full  two  hours — them  two  all  by 
themselves — and  the  countrymen  loafin'  around 
out  in  the  reception-room  there,  stompin'  their 
feet  and  grindin'  their  teeth,  jest  tired  to  death 
o'  waitin'.  It  went  agin  my  grain  to  tell  them 
last  two  lots  they'd  have  to  come  some  other 

44 


Marsena 


day;  but — I  dunno — perhaps  it's  jest  as  well. 
They'll  go  and  tell  it  around  that  we've  got 
more'n  we  can  do — and  that's  good  for  busi 
ness.  But,  all  the  same,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if 
he  took  considerable  more  time  than  was  really 
needful.  He  can  turn  out  four  farmers  in  fifteen 
minutes,  if  he  puts  on  a  spurt ;  and  here  he  was 
a  full  two  hours,  and  only  five  pictures  of  her  to 
show  for  it." 

"  Six,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Yes,  so  it  was — countin'  the  one  with  her 
hair  let  down,"  Mr.  Shull  admitted.  "  I  dun- 
no  whether  that  one  oughtn't  to  be  a  little  ex- 
try.  I  thought  o'  tellin'  her  that  it  would  be, 
on  account  of  so  much  hair  consumin'  more 
chemicals  ;  but — I  dunno' — somehow — she  sort 
o'  looked  as  if  she  knew  better.  Did  you  ever 
notice  them  eyes  o'  hern,  how  they  look  as  if 
they  could  see  straight  through  you,  and  out  on 
the  other  side?  " 

The  boy  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  bother 
my  head  about  women,"  he  said.  "  Got  some- 
thin'  better  to  do." 

"Guess  that's  a  pretty  good  plan  too," 
mused  Mr.  Shull.  "  Somehow  you  can't  seem 
to  make  'em  out  at  all.  Now,  I've  been  around 
a  good  deal,  and  yet  somehow  I  don't  feel  as  if 
I  knew  much  about  women.  I'm  bound  to  say, 

45 


Marseua 


though,"    he    added    upon    reflection,     "  they 
know  considerable  about  me." 

"  I  suppose  the  first  thing  we  know  now," 
remarked  the  boy,  impatiently  changing  the 
subject,  "  McClellan'll  be  in  Richmond.  They 
say  it's  liable  to  happen  now  any  day." 

Newton  Shu  11  was  but  a  lukewarm  patriot. 
"They  needn't  hurry  on  my  account,"  he 
said.  "  It  would  be  kind  o'  mean  to  have  the 
whole  thing  fizzle  out  now,  jest  when  the  picture 
business  has  begun  to  amount  to  something. 
Why,  we  must  have  took  in  up'ards  of  $11  to 
day — frames  and  all — and  two  years  ago  we'd 
a'  been  lucky  to  get  in  $3.  Let's  see  :  there's 
two  fifties  and  five  thirty-five's,  that's  $2.75, 
and  the  Dutch  boy  with  the  drum,  that's  $3.40, 
counting  the  mat,  and  then  there's  Miss  Par- 
malee —four  daguerreotypes,  and  two  negatives, 
and  small  frames  for  each,  and  two  large  frames 
for  crayons  she's  going  to  do  herself,  and  cord 
and  nails — I  suppose  she'll  think  them  ought 
to  be  thrown  in " 

"  What  !  didn't  you  make  her  pay  in  ad 
vance  ?"  asked  the  boy.  "  I  thought  every 
body  had  to." 

"  You  got  to  humor  some  folks,"  explained 
Mr.  Shull,  with   a  note  of  regret  in  his  voice. 
"  These  big  bugs  with  plenty  o'  money  always 
46 


Marsena 


have  to  be  waited  on.  It  ain't  right,  but  it  has 
to  be.  Besides,  you  can  always  slide  on  an  ex 
tra  quarter  or  so  when  you  send  in  the  bill. 
That  sort  o'  evens  the  thing  up.  Now,  in  her 
case,  for  instance,  where  we'd  charge  ordinary 
folks  a  dollar  for  two  daguerreotypes,  we  can 
send  her  in  a  bill  for " 

Neither  Mr.  Shtill  nor  the  boy  had  heard 
Marsena's  descending  steps  on  the  staircase,  yet 
at  this  moment  he  entered  the  little  work-room 
and  walked  across  it  to  the  bay  window,  where 
the  printing  was  done.  There  was  an  unusual 
degree  of  abstraction  in  his  face  and  mien — un- 
nsual  even  for  him — and  he  drummed  absent- 
mindedly  on  the  panes  as  he  stood  looking  out 
at  the  street  or  the  sky,  or  whatever  it  was  his 
listless  gaze  beheld. 

"  How  much  do  you  think  it  'ud  be  safe 
to  stick  Miss  Parmalee  apiece  for  them  da 
guerreotypes  ? ' '  asked  Newton  Shull  of  his 
partner. 

Marsena  turned  and  stared  for  a  moment  as 
if  he  doubted  having  heard  aright.  Then  he 
made  curt  answer  :  "  She  is  not  to  be  charged 
anything  at  all.  They  were  made  for  her  as 
presents." 

It  was  the  other  partner's  turn  to  stare. 

"  Well,  of  course — if  you  say  it's  all  right," 

47 


Marsena 


he  managed  to  get  out,  "  but  I  suppose  on  the 

frames  we  can " 

' '  The  frames  are  presents,  too, ' '  said  Mar 
sena,  with  decision. 


IV. 


DURING  the  fortnight  or  three  weeks  fol 
lowing  the  departure  of  Battery  G  it  be 
came  clear  to  everyone  that  the  War  was  as 
good  as  over.  It  had  lasted  already  a  whole 
year,  but  now  the  end  was  obviously  at  hand. 
The  Union  Army  had  the  Rebels  cooped  up 
in  Yorktown — the  identical  place  where  the 
British  had  been  compelled  to  surrender  at  the 
close  of  the  Revolution — and  it  was  impossible 
that  they  should  get  away.  The  very  coincid 
ence  of  locality  was  enough  in  itself  to  con 
vince  the  most  skeptical. 

We  read  that  Fitz  John  Porter  had  a  balloon 
fastened  by  a  rope,  in  which  he  daily  went  up 
and  took  a  look  through  his  field-glasses  at  the 
Rebels,  all  miserably  huddled  together  in  their 
trap,  awaiting  their  doom.  Our  soldiers  wrote 
home  now  that  final  victory  could  only  be  a 
matter  of  a  few  weeks,  or  months  at  the  most. 
Some  of  them  said  they  would  surely  be  home 
by  haying  time.  Their  letters  no  longer  dwelt 

49 


Mar  sen  a 


upon  battles,  or  the  prospect  of  battles,  but 
gossiped  about  the  jealousies  and  quarrels 
among  our  generals,  who  seemed  to  dislike 
one  another  much  more  than  they  did  the 
common  enemy,  and  told  us  long  and  quite  in 
credible  tales  about  the  mud  in  Virginia.  No 
soldier's  letter  that  spring  was  complete  with 
out  a  chapter  on  the  mud.  There  were  stories 
about  mules  and  their  contraband  drivers  being 
bodily  sunk  out  of  sight  in  these  weltering  seas 
of  mire,  and  of  new  boots  being  made  for  the 
officers  to  come  up  to  their  armpits,  which  we 
hardly  knew  whether  to  believe  or  not.  But 
about  the  fact  that  peace  was  practically  within 
view  there  could  be  no  doubt. 

Under  the  influence  of  this  mood,  Miss  Par- 
malee's  ambitious  project  for  a  grand  fair  and 
festival  in  aid  of  the  Field  Hospital  and  Nurse 
Fund  naturally  languished.  If  the  War  was 
coming  to  a  close  so  soon,  there  could  be  no 
use  in  going  to  so  much  worry  and  trouble, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  expense. 

Miss  Julia  seemed  to  take  this  view  of  it 
herself.  She  ceased  active  preparations  for  the 
fair,  and  printed  in  the  Thessaly  Banner  of 
Liberty  a  beautiful  poem  over  her  own  name 
entitled  "The  Dove-like  Dawn  of  White- 
winged  Peace."  She  also  got  herself  some 

50 


Marsena 


new  and  summery  dresses,  of  gay  tints  and  very 
fashionable  form,  and  went  to  be  photographed 
in  each.  Her  almost  daily  presence  at  the 
gallery  came,  indeed,  to  be  a  leading  topic  of 
conversation  in  Octavius.  Some  said  that  she 
was  taking  lessons  of  Marsena — learning  to  make 
photographs — but  others  put  a  different  con 
struction  on  the  matter  and  winked  as  they  did 
so. 

As  for  Marsena,  he  moved  about  the  streets 
these  days  with  his  head  among  the  stars,  in  a 
state  of  rapt  and  reverent  exaltation.  He  had 
never  been  what  might  be  called  a  talker,  but 
now  it  was  as  much  as  the  best  of  us  could  do 
to  get  any  kind  of  word  from  him.  He  did 
not  seem  to  talk  to  Julia  any  more  than  to  the 
general  public,  but  just  luxuriated  with  a  dumb 
solemnity  of  joy  in  her  company,  sitting  some 
times  for  hours  beside  her  on  the  piazza  of  the 
Parmalee  house,  or  focusing  her  pretty  image 
with  silent  delight  on  the  ground  glass  of  his 
best  camera  day  after  day,  or  walking  with  her, 
arm  in  arm,  to  the  Episcopal  church  on  Sun 
days.  He  had  always  been  a  Presbyterian  be 
fore,  but  now  he  bore  himself  in  the  prominent 
Parmalee  pew  at  St.  Mark's  with  stately  correct 
ness,  rising,  kneeling,  seating  himself,  just  as 
the  others  did,  and  helping  Miss  Julia  hold  her 


Marsena 


Prayer  Book  with  an  air  of  having  known  the 
ritual  from  childhood. 

No  doubt  a  good  many  people  felt  that  all 
this  was  rough  on  the  absent  Dwight  Ransom, 
and  probably  some  of  them  talked  openly  about 
it  ;  but  interest  in  this  aspect  of  the  case  was 
swallowed  up  in  the  larger  attention  now  given 
to  Marsena  Pulford  himself.  It  began  to  be 
reported  that  he  really  came  of  an  extraordina 
rily  good  family  in  New  England,  and  that  an 
uncle  of  his  had  been  in  Congress.  The  legend 
that  he  had  means  of  his  own  did  not  take 
much  root,  but  it  was  admitted  that  he  must 
now  be  simply  coining  money.  Some  went  so 
far  as  to  estimate  his  annual  profits  as  high  as 
$1,500,  which  sounded  to  the  average  Octa- 
vian  like  a  dream.  It  was  commonly  under 
stood  that  he  had  abandoned  an  earlier  inten 
tion  to  buy  a  house  and  lot  of  his  own.  and 
this  clearly  seemed  to  show  that  he  counted 
upon  going  presently  to  live  in  the  Parmalee 
mansion.  People  speculated  with  idle  curiosity 
as  to  the  likelihood  of  this  coming  to  pass  l>e- 
fore  the  War  ended  and  Battery  G  returned 
home. 

Suddenly  great  and  stirring  news  fell  upon  the 
startled  North  and  set  Octavius  thrilling  with 
excitement,  along  with  every  other  community 

52 


Marsena 


far  and  near.  It  was  in  the  first  week  or  so  of 
May  that  the  surprise  came  ;  the  Rebels,  whom 
we  had  supposed  to  be  securely  locked  up  in 
Yorktown,  with  no  alternative  save  starvation 
or  surrender,  decided  not  to  remain  there  any 
longer,  and  accordingly  marched  comfortably 
off  in  the  direction  of  Richmond  ! 

Quick  upon  the  heels  of  this  came  tidings  that 
the  Union  Army  was  in  pursuit,  and  that  there 
had  been  savage  fighting  with  the  Confederate 
rear-guard  at  Williamsburg.  The  papers  said 
that  the  War,  so  far  from  ending,  must  now  be 
fought  all  over  again.  The  marvellous  story  of 
the  Monitor  and  Merrimac  sent  our  men  folks 
into  a  frenzy  of  patriotic  fervor.  Our  women 
learned  with  sinking  hearts  that  the  new  Corps 
which  included  our  Dearborn  County  regiments 
was  to  bear  the  brunt  of  the  conflict  in  this 
changed  order  of  things.  We  were  all  off  again 
in  a  hysterical  whirl  of  emotions — now  pride, 
now  horror,  now  bitter  wrath  on  top. 

In  the  middle  of  all  this  the  famous  Field 
Hospital  and  Nurse  Fund  Fair  was  held.  The 
project  had  slumbered  the  while  people  thought 
peace  so  near.  It  sprang  up  with  renewed  and 
vigorous  life  the  moment  the  echo  of  those  guns 
at  Williamsburg  reached  our  ears.  And  of  course 
at  its  head  was  Julia  Parmalee. 

53 


Marsena 


It  would  take  a  long  time  and  a  powerful  ran 
sacking  of  memory  to  catalogue  the  remarkable 
things  which  this  active  young  woman  did  tow 
ard  making  that  fair  the  success  it  undoubtedly 
was.  Even  more  notable  were  the  things  which 
she  coaxed,  argued,  or  shamed  other  folks  into 
doing  for  it.  Years  afterward  there  were  old 
people  who  would  tell  you. that  Octavius  had 
never  been  quite  the  same  place  since. 

For  one  thing,  instead  of  the  Fireman's  Hall, 
with  its  dingy  aspect  and  somewhat  rowdyish 
associations,  the  fair  was  held  in  the  Court 
House,  and  we  all  understood  that  MisS  Julia 
had  been  able  to  secure  this  favor  on  account  of 
her  late  uncle,  the  Judge,  when  anyone  else 
would  have  been  refused.  It  was  tinder  her  tire 
less  and  ubiquitous  supervision  that  this  solemn 
old  interior  now  took  on  a  gay  and  festal  face. 
Under  the  inspiration  of  her  glance  the  members 
of  the  Fire  Company  and  the  Alert  Baseball  Club 
vied  with  each  other  in  borrowing  flags  and 
hanging  them  from  the  most  inaccessible  and 
adventurous  points.  The  rivalry  between  the 
local  Freemasons  and  Odd  Fellows  was  utilized 
to  build  temporary  booths  at  the  sides  and  down 
the  centre — on  a  floor  laid  over  the  benches  by 
the  Carpenters'  Benevolent  Association.  The 
ladies'  organizations  of  the  various  churches,  out 

54 


Marsena 


of  devotion  to  the  Union  and  jealousy  of  one 
another,  did  all  the  rest. 

At  the  sides  were  the  stalls  for  the  sale  of 
useful  household  articles,  and  sedate  and  elderly 
matrons  found  themselves  now  dragged  from  the 
mild  obscurity  of  homes  where  they  did  their 
own  work,  and  thrust  forward  to  preside  over  the 
sales  in  these  booths,  while  thrifty,  not  to  say 
penurious,  merchants  came  and  stood  around 
and  regarded  with  amazement  the  merchandise 
which  they  had  been  wheedled  into  contributing 
gratis  out  of  their  own  stores.  The  suggestion 
that  they  should  now  buy  it  back  again  paral 
yzed  their  faculties,  and  imparted  a  distinct  re 
straint  to  the  festivities  at  the  sides  of  the  big 
court-room. 

In  the  centre  was  a  double  row  of  booths  for 
the  sale  of  articles  not  so  strictly  useful,  and 
here  the  young  people  congregated.  All  the 
girls  of  Octavius  seemed  to  have  been  gathered 
here — the  pretty  ones  and  the  plain  ones,  the 
saucy  ones  and  the  shy,  the  maidens  who  were 
"getting  along"  and  the  damsels  not  yet  out 
of  their  teens.  Stiff,  spreading  crinolines 
brushed  juvenile  pantalettes,  and  the  dark  head 
of  long,  shaving-like  ringlets  contrasted  itself 
with  the  bold  waterfall  of  blonde  hair.  These 
girls  did  not  know  one  another  very  well,  save 

55 


Mar  sen  a 


by  little  groups  formed  around  the  nucleus  of  a 
church  association,  and  very  few  of  them  knew 
Miss  Parmalee  at  all,  except,  of  course,  by  sight. 
But  now,  astonishing  to  relate,  she  recognized 
them  by  name  as  old  friends,  shook  hands 
warmly  right  and  left,  and  blithely  set  them  all 
to  work  and  at  their  ease.  The  idea  of  selling 
things  to  young  men  abashed  them  by  its  weird 
and  unmaidenly  novelty.  She  showed  them  how 
it  should  be  done — bringing  forward  for  the 
purpose  a  sheepishly  obstinate  drug-store  clerk, 
and  publicly  dragooning  him  into  paying  eighty 
cents  for  a  leather  dog-collar,  despite  his  pro 
tests  that  he  had  no  dog  and  hated  the  whole 
canine  species,  and  could  get  such  a  strap  as 
that  anywhere  for  fifteen  cents — all  amid  the 
greatest  merriment.  Her  influence  was  so  per 
vasive,  indeed,  that  even  the  nicest  girls  soon 
got  into  a  state  of  giggling  familiarity  with  com 
parative  strangers,  which  gave  their  elders  con 
cern,  and  which  in  some  cases  it  took  many 
months  to  straighten  out  again.  But  for  the 
time  all  was  sparkling  gaiety.  On  the  second 
and  final  evening,  after  the  oyster  supper,  the 
Philharmonics  played  and  a  choir  of  girls  sang 
patriotic  songs.  Then  the  gas  was  turned  down 
and  the  stereopticon  show  began. 

As  the   last   concerted  achievement  of  the 

56 


Marsena 


firm  of  Pulford  &  Shull,  this  magic-lantern  per 
formance  is  still  remembered.  The  idea  of 
it,  of  course,  was  Julia's.  She  suggested  it  to 
Marsena,  and  he  gladly  volunteered  to  make 
any  number  of  positive  plates  from  appropriate 
pictures  and  portraits  for  the  purpose.  Then 
she  pressed  Newton  Shull  into  the  service  to 
get  a  stereopticon  on  hire,  to  rig  up  the  plat 
form  and  canvas  for  it,  and  finally  to  consent 
to  quit  his  post  among  the  Philharmonics  when 
the  music  ceased,  and  to  go  off  up  into  the 
gallery  to  work  the  slides.  He  also,  during 
Marsena's  absence  one  day,  made  a  slide  on 
his  own  account. 

Mr.  Shull  had  not  taken  very  kindly  to  the 
idea  when  Miss  Julia  first  broached  it  to  him. 

"No,  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  worked  a 
stereopticon,"  he  said,  striving  to  look  with 
cold  placidity  into  the  winsome  and  beaming 
smile  with  which  she  confronted  him  one  day 
out  in  the  reception-room.  She  had  never 
smiled  at  him  before  or  pretended  even  to  know 
his  name.  "  I  guess  you'd  better  hire  a  man 
up  from  Tecumseh  to  bring  the  machine  and 
run  it  himself." 

"  But  you  can  do  it  so  much  better,  my 
dear  Mr.  Shull !  "  she  urged.  "  You  do  every 
thing  so  much  better  !  Mr.  Pulford  often  says 

57 


Marsena 


that  he  never  knew  such  a  handy  man  in  all 
his  life.  It  seems  that  there  is  literally  nothing 
that  you  can't  do — except — perhaps — refuse  a 
lady  a  great  personal  favor." 

Miss  Julia  put  this  last  so  delicately,  and 
with  such  a  pretty  little  arch  nod  of  the  head 
and  turn  of  the  eyes,  that  Newton  Shull  sur 
rendered  at  discretion.  He  promised  every 
thing  on  the  spot,  and  he  kept  his  word.  In 
fact,  he  more  than  kept  it. 

The  great  evening  came,  as  I  have  said,  and 
when  the  lights  were  turned  down  to  ex 
tinction's  verge  those  who  were  nearest  the 
front  could  distinguish  the  vacant  chair  which 
Mr.  Shull  had  been  occupying,  with  his  bass 
viol  leaning  against  it.  They  whispered  from 
one  to  another  that  he  had  gone  up  in  the 
gallery  to  work  this  new-fangled  contrivance. 
Then  came  a  flashing  broad  disk  of  light  on  the 
screen  above  the  judges'  bench,  a  spreading 
sibilant  murmur  of  interest,  and  the  show  be 
gan. 

It  was  an  oddly  limited  collection  of  pictures 
— mainly  thin  and  feeble  copies  of  newspaper 
engravings,  photographic  portraits,  and  ideal 
heads  from  the  magazines.  Winfield  Scott 
followed  in  the  wake  of  Kossuth,  and  Gari 
baldi  led  the  way  for  John  C.  Fremont  and 

58 


Marsena 


Lola  Montez.  There  was  applause  for  the 
long,  homely,  familiar  face  of  Lincoln,  and  a 
derisive  snicker  for  the  likeness  of  Jeff  Davis 
turned  upside  down.  Then  came  local  heroes 
from  the  district  round  about — Gen.  Boyce, 
Col.  Mclntyre,  and  young  Adjt.  Heron,  who 
had  died  so  bravely  at  Ball's  Bluff — mixed  with 
some  landscapes  and  statuary,  and  a  comic  cari 
cature  or  two.  The  rapt  assemblage  murmured 
its  recognitions,  sighed  its  deeper  emotions, 
chuckled  over  the  funny  plates — deeming  it  all 
a  most  delightful  entertainment.  From  time 
to  time  there  were  long  hitches,  marked  by  a 
curious  spluttering  noise  above,  and  the  abor 
tive  flashes  of  meaningless  light  on  the  screen/ 
and  the  explanation  was  passed  about  in  under 
tones  that  Mr.  Shull  was  having  difficulties 
with  the  machine. 

It  was  after  the  longest  of  these  delays  that, 
all  at  once,  an  extremely  vivid  picture  was 
jerked  suddenly  upon  the  canvas,  and,  after  a 
few  preliminary  twitches,  settled  in  place  to 
stare  us  out  of  countenance.  There  was  no 
room  for  mistake.  It  was  the  portrait  of  Miss 
Julia  Parmalee  standing  proudly  erect  in  statu 
esque  posture,  with  one  hand  resting  on  the 
back  of  a  chair,  and  seated  in  this  chair  was 
Lieut.  Dwight  Ransom,  smiling  amiably. 

59 


Mar  sena 


There  was  a  moment's  deadly  hush,  while 
we  gazed  at  this  unlooked-for  apparition.  It 
seemed,  upon  examination,  as  if  there  was  a 
certain  irony  in  the  Lieutenant's  grin.  Some 
one  in  the  darkness  emitted  an  abrupt  snort  of 
amusement,  and  a  general  titter  arose,  hung  in 
the  air  for  an  awkward  instant,  and  then  was 
drowned  by  a  generous  burst  of  applause. 
While  the  people  were  still  clapping  their 
hands  the  picture  was  withdrawn  from  the 
screen,  and  we  heard  Newton  Shull  call  down 
from  his  perch  in  the  gallery  : 

* '  You  kin  turn  up  the  lights  now.  They 
ain't  no  more  to  this." 

In  another  minute  we  were  sitting  once  again 
in  the  broad  glare  of  the  gaslight,  blinking 
confusedly  at  one  another,  and  with  a  dazed 
consciousness  that  something  rather  embarrass 
ing  had  happened.  The  boldest  of  us  began 
to  steal  glances  across  to  where  Miss  Parmalee 
and  Marsena  sat,  just  in  front  of  the  steps  to 
the  bench. 

What  Miss  Julia  felt  was  beyond  guessing, 
but  there  she  was,  at  any  rate,  bending  over 
and  talking  vivaciously,  all  smiles  and  collected 
nerves,  to  a  lady  two  seats  removed.  But  Mar 
sena  displayed  no  such  presence  of  mind.  He 
sat  bolt  upright,  with  an  extraordinarily  white 
60 


Mar  sena 


face  and  a  drooping  jaw,  staring  fixedly  at  the 
empty  canvas  on  the  wall  before  him.  Such 
absolute  astonishment  was  never  depicted  on 
human  visage  before. 

Perhaps  from  native  inability  to  mind  his 
own  business,  perhaps  with  a  kindly  view  of 
saving  an  anxious  situation,  the  Baptist  minister 
rose  now  to  his  feet,  coughed  loudly  to  secure 
attention,  and  began  some  florid  remarks  about 
the  success  of  the  fair,  the  especial  beauty  of 
the  lantern  exhibition  they  had  just  witnessed, 
and  the  felicitous  way  in  which  it  had  termi 
nated  with  a  portrait  of  the  beautiful  and  dis 
tinguished  young  lady  to  whose  genius  and 
unwearying  efforts  they  were  all  so  deeply 
indebted.  In  these  times  of  national  travail 
and  distress,  he  said,  there  was  a  peculiar  satis 
faction  in  seeing  her  portrait  accompanied  by 
that  of  one  of  the  courageous  and  noble  young 
men  who  had  sprung  to  the  defence  of  their 
country.  The  poet  had  averred,  he  continued, 
that  none  but  the  brave  deserved  the  fair,  and 
so  on,  and  so  on. 

Miss  Julia  listened  to  it  all  with  her  head  on 
one  side  and  a  modestly  deprecatory  half-smile 
on  her  face.  At  its  finish  she  rose,  turned  to 
face  everybody,  made  a  pert,  laughing  little 
bow,  and  sat  down  again,  apparently  all  happi- 
61 


Marsena 


ness.  But  it  was  noted  that  Marsena  did  not 
take  his  pained  and  fascinated  gaze  from  that 
mocking  white  screen  on  the  wall  straight  in 
front. 

They  walked  in  silence  that  evening  to  al 
most  the  gate  of  the  Parmalee  mansion.  Julia 
had  taken  his  arm,  as  usual ;  but  Marsena  could 
not  but  feel  that  the  touch  was  different.  It 
was  in  the  nature  of  a  relief  to  him  that  for 
once  she  did  not  talk.  His  heart  was  too  sore, 
his  brain  too  bewildered,  for  the  task  of  even 
a  one-sided  conversation,  such  as  theirs  was 
wont  to  be.  Then  all  at  once  the  silence  grew 
terrible  to  him — a  weight  to  be  lifted  at  all 
hazards  on  the  instant. 

"  Shull  must  have  made  that  last  slide  him 
self,"  he  blurted  out.  "  I  never  dreamt  of  its 
being  made." 

"  I  thought  it  came  out  very  well  indeed," 
remarked  Miss  Parmalee,  "  especially  his  uni 
form.  You  could  quite  see  the  eagles  on  the 
buttons.  You  must  thank  Mr.  Shull  for  me." 

"I'll  speak  to  him  in  the  morning  about 
it,"  said  Marsena,  with  gloomy  emphasis.  He 
sighed,  bit  his  lip,  fixed  an  intent  gaze  upon 
the  big  dark  bulk  of  the  Parmalee  house  loom 
ing  before  them,  and  spoke  again.  "  There's 
62 


Marsena 


something  that  I  want  to  say  to  you,  though, 
that  won't  keep  till  morning." 

A  tiny  movement  of  the  hand  on  his  arm 
was  the  only  response. 

"I  see  now,"  Marsena  went  on,  "that  I 
ain't  been  making  any  real  headway  with  you 
at  all.  I  thought — well — I  don't  know  as  I 
know  just  what  I  did  think — but  I  guess  now 
that  it  was  a  mistake." 

Yes — there  was  a  distinct  flutter  of  the  little 
gloved  hand.  It  put  a  wild  thought  into  Mar 
sena' s  head. 

"  Would  you,"  he  began  boldly — "  I  never 
spoke  of  it  before — but  would  you — that  is,  if 
I  was  to  enlist  and  go  to  the  War  —  would 
that  make  any  difference  ? — you  know  what  I 
mean. ' ' 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  magnetic  sweet 
ness  in  her  dusky,  shadowed  glance.  "  How 
can  any  able-bodied  young  patriot  hesitate  at 
such  a  time  as  this?  "  she  made  answer,  and 
pressed  his  arm. 


V. 

IT  was  in   this  same  May,  not  more  than   a 
week  after  the  momentous  episode  of  the 
Field  Hospital  and  Nurse  Fund  Fair,  that  Mar- 
sena  Pulford  went  off  to  the  War. 

There  was  no  ostentation  about  his  depart 
ure.  He  had  indeed  been  gone  for  a  day  or 
two  before  it  became  known  in  Octavius  that 
his  absence  from  town  meant  that  he  had  en 
listed  down  at  Tecumseh.  We  learned  that  he 
had  started  as  a  common  private,  but  every 
body  made  sure  that  a  man  of  his  distinguished 
appearance  and  deportment  would  speedily  get 
a  commission.  Everybody,  too,  had  a  theory 
of  some  sort  as  to  the  motives  for  this  sudden 
and  strange  behavior  of  his.  These  theories 
agreed  in  linking  Miss  Parmalee  with  the  affair, 
but  there  were  hopeless  divergencies  as  to  the 
exact  part  she  played  in  it.  One  party  held 
that  Marsena  had  been  driven  to  seek  death  on 
the  tented  field  by  despair  at  having  been 
given  the  "mitten."  Others  insisted  that  he 
had  not  been  given  the  "  mitten  "  at  all,  but 

64 


Marsena 


had  gone  because  her  well  -  known  martial 
ardor  made  the  sacrifice  of  her  betrothed  neces 
sary  to  her  peace  of  mind.  A  minority  took 
the  view  which  Homer  Sage  promulgated  from 
his  tilted-back  chair  on  the  stoop  of  the  Excel 
sior  Hotel. 

"They  ain't  nothin'  settled  betwixt  'em,M 
this  student  of  human  nature  declared.  "  She 
jest  dared  him  to  go,  and  he  went.  And 
if  you  only  give  her  time,  she'll  have  the 
whole  male  unmarried  population  of  Octavius, 
between  the  ages  of  sixteen  and  sixty,  down 
there  wallerin'  around  in  the  Virginny  swamps, 
feedin'  the  muskeeters  and  makin'  a  bid  for 
glory." 

But  in  a  few  days  there  came  the  terribly  ex 
citing  news  of  Seven  Pines  and  Fair  Oaks — 
that  first  great  combat  of  the  revived  war  in  the 
East — and  we  ceased  to  bother  our  heads  about 
the  photographer  and  his  love.  The  enlisting 
fever  sprang  up  again,  and  our  young  men  be 
gan  to  make  their  way  by  dozens  and  scores  to 
the  recruiting  office  at  Tecumseh.  There  were 
more  farewells,  more  tears  and  prayers,  not  to 
mention  several  funerals  of  soldiers  killed  at 
Hanover  Court  House,  where  that  Fifth  Corps, 
which  contained  most  of  our  volunteers,  had  its 
first  spring  smell  of  blood.  And  soon  there - 

65 


Marsena 


after  burst  upon  us  the  awful  sustained  carnage 
of  the  Seven  Days'  fighting,  which  drove  out  of 
our  minds  even  the  recollection  that  Miss  Julia 
Parmalee  herself  had  volunteered  for  active  ser 
vice  in  the  Sanitary  Commission,  and  gone 
South  to  take  up  her  work. 

And  so  July  3d  came,  bringing  with  it  the 
bare  tidings  of  that  closing  desperate  battle  of 
the  week  at  Malvern  Hill,  and  the  movement  of 
what  was  left  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac  to 
a  safe  resting  place  on  the  James  River.  We 
were  beginning  to  get  the  details  of  local  inter 
est  by  the  slow  single  wire  from  Thessaly,  and 
sickening  enough  they  were.  The  village 
streets  were  filled  with  silent,  horror-stricken 
crowds.  The  whole  community  seemed  to 
have  but  a  single  face,  repeated  upon  the 
mental  vision  at  every  step  —  a  terrible  face 
with  distended,  empty  eyes,  riven  brows,  and 
an  open  drawn  mouth  like  the  old  Greek  mask 
of  tragedy. 

"  I  swan  !  I  don't  know  whether  to  keep 
open  to-morrow  or  not,"  said  Mr.  Newton 
Shtill,  for  perhaps  the  twentieth  time,  as  he 
wandered  once  again  from  the  reception-room 
into  the  little  workshop  behind.  "  In  some 
ways  it's  kind  of  agin  my  principles  to  work 
on  Independence  Day — but,  then  again,  if  I 
66 


Mar  sena 


thought  there  was  likely  to  be  a  good  many 
farmers  comin'  into  town " 

"  They'll  be  plenty  of  'em  coming  in,"  said 
the  boy,  over  his  shoulder,  "but  they'll  steer 
clear  of  here. ' ' 

"  I'm  'fraid  so,"  sighed  Mr.  Shull.  He  ad 
vanced  a  listless  step  or  two  and  gazed  with  de 
jected  apathy  at  the  newspaper  map  tacked  to 
the  wall,  on  which  the  boy  was  making  red  and 
blue  crosses  with  a  colored  pencil.  "I  don't 
see  much  good  o'  that,"  he  said.  "  Still,  of 
course,  if  it  eases  your  mind  any — 

"That's  where  the  fightin'  finished,"  ob 
served  the  boy,  pointing  to  a  big  mark  on  the 
map.  "  That's  Malvern  Hill  there,  and  here — 
down  where  the  river  takes  the  big  bend — that's 
Harrison's  Landing,  where  the  army's  movin' 
to.  See  them  seven  rings?  Them  are  the 
battles,  one  each  day,  as  our  men  forced  their 
way  down  through  the  Chickahominy  swamps, 
beginnin'  up  in  the  corner  with  Beaver  Dam 
Creek.  If  the  map  was  a  little  higher  it  'ud 
show  the  Pamunkey,  where  they  started  from. 
My  uncle  says  that  the  whole  mistake  was  in 
ever  abandoning  the  Pamunkey. ' ' 

"  Pa-monkey  or  Ma-monkey,"  said  Newton 
Shull,  gloomily,  "it  wouldn't  be  no  comfort  to 
me  to  see  it,  even  on  a  map.  It's  jest  taken  and 

67 


Marsena 


busted  me  and  my  business  here  clean  as  a 
whistle.  We  ain't  paid  expenses  two  days  in  a 
week  sence  Marseny  went.  Here  I've  got  now 
so't  I  kin  take  a  plain,  everyday  sort  o'  picture 
jest  about  as  well  as  he  did — a  little  streakid 
sometimes,  perhaps,  and  more  or  less  pinholes 
— but  still  pretty  middlin'  fair  on  an  average, 
and  then,  darn  my  buttons  if  they  don't  all 
stop  comin'.  It  positively  don't  seem  to  me  as 
if  there  was  a  single  human  bein'  in  Dearborn 
County  that  'ud  have  his  picture  took  as  a  gift. 
All  they  want  now  is  to  have  enlargements 
thrown  up  from  little  likenesses  of  their  men 
folks  that  have  been  killed,  and  them  I  don't 
know  how  to  do  no  more'n  a  babe  unborn." 

"  You  knew  well  enough  how  to  make  that 
stereopticon  slide,"  remarked  the  boy  with  se 
verity. 

"  Yes,"  mused  Mr.  Shull,  "that  darned 
thing — that  made  a  peck  o'  trouble,  didn't  it  ? 
I  dun  no  what  on  earth  possessed  me  ;  I  kind 
o'  seemed  to  git  the  notion  of  doin'  it  into  my 
head  all  to  once't,  and  somehow  I  never  dreamt 
of  its  rilin'  Marseny  so;  you  couldn't  tell 
that  a  man  'ud  be  so  blamed  touchy  as  all  that, 
could  you  ? — and  I  dunno,  like  as  not  he'd  a' 
enlisted  any  how.  But  I  do  wish  he'd  showed 
me  how  to  make  them  pesky  enlargements  afore 


Marsena 


he  went.  If  I'd  only  seen  him  do  one,  even 
once,  I  could  a'  picked  the  thing  up,  but  I 
never  did.  It's  just  my  luck  !  " 

"  Say,"  said  the  boy,  looking  up  with  a  sud 
den  thought,  "do  you  know  what  my  mother 
heard  yesterday  ?  It's  all  over  the  place  that 
before  Marseny  left  he  went  to  Squire  Scher- 
merhorn's  and  made  his  will,  and  left  every 
thing  he's  got  to  the  Parmalee  girl,  in  case  he 
gits  killed.  So,  if  anything  happens  she'd  be 
your  partner,  wouldn't  she?  " 

Newton  Shull  stared  with  surprise.  "  Well, 
now,  that  beats  creation,"  he  said,  after  a  lit 
tle.  "  Somehow  you  know  that  never  occurred 
to  me,  and  yet,  of  course,  that  'ud  be  jest  his 
style." 

"Yes,  sir,"  repeated  the  other,  "  they  say 
he's  left  her  every  identical  thing." 

"  It's  allus  that  way  in  this  world,"  reflected 
Mr.  Shull,  sadly.  "  Them  that  don't  need  it 
one  solitary  atom,  they're  eternally  gettin' 
every  mortal  thing  left  to  'em.  Why,  that 
girl's  so  rich  already  she  don't  know  what  to 
do  with  her  money.  If  I  was  her,  I  bet  a 
cooky  I  wouldn't  go  pikin'  off  to  the  battle 
field,  doin'  nursin'  and  tyin'  on  bandages,  and 
fannin'  men  while  they  were  gittin'  their  legs 
cut  off.  No,  sirree;  I'd  let  the  Sanitary  Com- 
69 


Marsena 


mission  scuffle  along  without  me,  I  can  tell 
you  !  A  boss  and  buggy  and  a  fust-class  two- 
dollar-a-day  hotel,  and  goin'  to  the  theatre  jest 
when  I  took  the  notion — that'd  be  good 
enough  for  me." 

"  I  suppose  the  sign  then  'ud  be  '  Shull  & 
Parmalee,'  wouldn't  it  ?  "  queried  the  boy. 

"Well,  now,  I  ain't  so  sure  about  that," 
said  Mr.  Shull,  thoughtfully.  "  It  might  be 
that,  bein'  a  woman,  her  name  'ud  come  first, 
out  o'  politeness.  But  then,  of  course,  most 
prob'ly  she'd  want  to  sell  out  instid,  and  then 
I'd  make  the  valuation,  and  she  could  give  me 
time.  Or  she  might  want  to  stay  in,  only  on 
the  quiet,  you  know — what  they  call  a  silent 
partner." 

"  Nobody  'd  ever  call  her  a  silent  partner," 
observed  the  boy.  "  She  couldn't  keep  still  if 
she  tried." 

"I  wouldn't  care  how  much  she  talked," 
said  Mr.  Shull,  "  if  she  only  put  enough  more 
money  into  the  business.  I  didn't  take  much 
to  her,  somehow,  along  at  fust,  but  the  more 
I've  seen  of  her  the  more  I  like  the  cut  of  her 
jib.  She's  got  'go  '  in  her,  that  gal  has;  she 
jest  figures  out  what  she  wants,  and  then  she 
sails  in  and  gits  it.  It  don't  matter  who  the 
man  is,  she  jest  takes  and  winds  him  round  her 
70 


Marsena 


little  finger.  Why,  Marseny,  here,  he  wasn't 
no  more  than  so  much  putty  in  her  hands.  I 
lost  all  patience  with  him.  You  wouldn't 
catch  me  being  run  by  a  woman  that  way. ' ' 

"  So  far's  I  could  see,"  suggested  the  other, 
"she  seemed  to  git  pretty  much  all  she 
wanted  out  of  you,  too.  You  were  dancin* 
round,  helpin'  her  at  the  fair  there,  like  a  hen 
on  a  hot  griddle." 

"It  was  all  on  his  account,"  put  in  the 
partner,  with  emphasis.  "  Jest  to  please  him  ; 
he  seemed  so  much  sot  on  her  bein'  humored 
in  everything.  I  did  feel  kind  o'  foolish  about 
it  at  the  time — I  never  somehow  believed  much 
in  doin'  work  for  nothin' — but  maybe  it  was 
all  for  the  best.  If  what  they  say  about  his 
makin'  a  will  is  true,  why  it  won't  do  me  no 
harm  to  be  on  good  terms  with  her — in  case — 
in  case " 

Mr.  Shull  was  standing  at  the  window,  and 
his  idle  gaze  had  been  vaguely  taking  in  the 
general  prospect  of  the  street  below  the  while 
he  spoke.  At  this  moment  he  discovered  that 
some  one  on  the  opposite  sidewalk  was  making 
vehement  gestures  to  attract  his  attention.  He 
lifted  the  sash  and  put  his  head  out  to  listen, 
but  the  message  came  across  loud  enough  for 
even  the  boy  inside  to  hear. 


M.irsena 


"You'd  better  hurry  round  to  the  telegraph 
office!"  this  hoarse,  anonymous  voice  cried. 
"Malvern  Hill  list  is  a-comin'  in — and  they 
say  your  pardner's  been  shot — shot  bad,  too  !  " 

Newton  Shull  drew  in  his  head  and  stood  for 
some  moments  staring  blankly  at  the  map  on 
the  wall.  "  Well,  I  swan  !  "  he  began,  with 
confused  hesitation,  "  I  dunno — it  seems  to  me 
— well,  yes,  I  guess  prob'ly  the  best  thing' 11 
be  for  her  to  put  more  money  into  the  business 
— yes,  that's  the  plan — and  we  kin  hire  an 
operator  up  from  Tecumseh." 

But  there  was  no  one  to  pass  an  opinion  on 
his  project.  The  boy  had  snatched  his  hat, 
and  could  be  heard  even  now  dashing  his  way 
furiously  down  the  outer  stairs. 

The  summer  dusk  had  l>egun  to  gather  be 
fore  Octavitis  heard  all  that  was  to  be  learned 
of  the  frightful  calamity  which  had  befallen 
its  absent  sons.  The  local  roll  of  death  and 
disaster  from  Gaines's  Mill  earlier  in  the  week 
had  seemed  incredibly  awful.  This  new  bud 
get  of  horrors  from  Malvern  was  far  worse. 

"Wa'n't  the  rest  of  the  North  doin'  any 
thing  at  all?"  a  wild-eyed,  disheveled  old 
farmer  cried  out  in  a  shaking,  half-frenzied 
shriek  from  the  press  of  the  crowd  round  the 
72 


Marsena 


telegraph  office.  "Do  they  think  Dearborn 
County's  got  to  suppress  this  whole  damned 
rebellion  single-handed  ?  " 

It  seemed  to  the  dazed  and  horrified  throng 
as  if  some  such  idea  must  be  in  the  minds  of 
the  rest  of  the  Union.  Surely  no  other  little 
community — or  big  community,  either — could 
have  had  such  a  hideous  blow  dealt  to  it  as  this 
under  which  Octavius  reeled.  The  list  of  the 
week  for  the  county,  including  Gaines's  Mill, 
showed  one  hundred  and  eight  men  dead  out 
right,  and  very  nearly  five  hundred  more 
wounded  in  battle.  It  was  too  shocking  for 
comprehension. 

As  evening  drew  on,  men  gathered  the  nerve 
to  say  to  one  another  that  there  was  something 
very  glorious  in  the  way  the  two  regiments  had 
been  thrust  into  the  front,  and  had  shown 
themselves  heroically  fit  for  that  grim  honor. 
They  tried,  too,  to  extract  solace  from  the  news 
that  the  regiments  in  question  had  been  men 
tioned  by  name  in  the  general  despatches  as 
having  distinguished  themselves  and  their  coun 
ty  above  all  the  rest — but  it  was  an  empty  and 
heart-sickened  pretense  at  best,  and  when, 
about  dark,  the  women  folks,  who  had  waited 
in  vain  for  them  to  come  home  to  supper,  be 
gan  to  appear  on  the  skirts  of  the  crowd,  it  was 

73 


Marsena 


given  up  altogether.  In  after  years  Octavius 
got  so  that  it  could  cheer  those  sinister  names 
of  Gaines's  Mill  and  Malvern  Hill,  and  swell 
with  pride  at  the  memories  they  evoked.  But 
that  evening  no  one  cheered.  It  was  too  terri 
ble. 

There  was,  indeed,  a  single  partial  excep 
tion  to  this  rule.  The  regular  service  of  news 
had  ceased — in  those  days,  before  the  duplex 
invention,  the  single  wire  had  most  melancholy 
limitations — but  the  throng  still  lingered  ;  and 
when,  in  the  failing  light,  the  postmaster  was 
seen  to  step  up  again  on  the  chair  by  the  door 
with  a  bit  of  paper  in  his  hand,  a  solemn  hush 
ran  over  the  assemblage. 

"It  is  a  private  telegram  sent  to  me  person 
ally,"  he  explained,  in  the  loud,  clear  tones  of 
one  who  had  earned  his  office  by  years  of  stump 
speaking;  "but  it  is  intended  for  you  all,  I 
should  presume." 

The  silent  crowd  pushed  nearer,  and  listened 
with  strained  attention  as  this  despatch  was 
read  : 

HEADQUARTERS  SANITARY  COMMISSION, 
HARRISON'S  LANDING,  VA.,  Wednesday  Morning. 
To  POSTMASTER  OCTAVIUS,  N.  Y.  : 

No  words  can  describe  magnificent  record  soldiers  of 
Dearborn  County,  especially  Starbuck,  made  past  week. 

74 


Mar  sen  a 


I  bless  fate  which  identified  my  poor  services  with  such 
superb  heroism.  After  second  sleepless  night,  Col. 
Starbuck  now  reposing  peacefully  ;  doctor  says  crisis 
past  ;  he  surely  recover,  though  process  be  slow.  You 
will  learn  with  pride  he  been  brevetted  Brigadier,  fact 
which  it  was  my  privilege  to  announce  to  him  last  even 
ing.  He  feebly  thanked  me,  murmuring,  "  Tell 
them  at  home." 

"  JULIA  FARM  ALEE." 

In  the  silence  which  ensued  the  postmaster 
held  the  paper  up  and  scanned  it  narrowly  by 
the  waning  light.  "  There  is  something  else," 
he  said — "  Oh,  yes,  I  see  ;  <  Franked  despatch 
Sanitary  Commission. '  That's  all. ' ' 

Another  figure  was  seen  suddenly  clambering 
upon  the  chair,  with  an  .arm  around  the  post 
master  for  support.  It  was  the  teller  of  the 
bank.  He  waved  his  free  arm  excitedly,  as  he 
faced  the  crowd,  and  cried  : 

"  Our  women  are  as  brave  as  our  men  ! 
Three  cheers  for  Miss  Julia  Parmalee  !  Hip- 
hip  !  " 

The  loyal  teller's  first  "  Hurrah !  "  fell  upon 
the  air  quite  by  itself.  Perhaps  a  dozen  voices 
helped  him  half-  heartedly  with  the  second. 
The  third  died  off  again  miserably,  and  he 
stepped  down  off  the  chair  amid  a  general  con 
sciousness  of  failure. 

"Who  the  hell  is  Starbuck?"     was  to  be 

75 


Mar  sen  a 


heard  in  whispered  interrogatory  passed  along 
through  the  throng.  Hardly  anybody  could 
answer.  Boyce  we  knew,  and  Mclntyre,  and 
many  others,  but  Starbuck  was  a  mystery. 
Then  it  was  explained  that  it  must  be  the  son 
of  old  Alanson  Starbuck,  of  Juno  Mills,  who 
had  gone  away  to  Pniladelphia  seven  or  eight 
years  before.  He  had  not  enlisted  with  any 
Dearborn  County  regiment,  but  held  a  staff 
appointment  of  some  kind,  presumably  in  a 
Pennsylvania  command.  We  were  quite  un 
able  to  work  up  any  emotion  over  him. 

In  fact,  the  more  we  thought  it  over,  the 
more  we  were  disposed  to  resent  this  planting 
of  Starbuck  upon  us,  in  the  very  van  of  Dear 
born  County's  heroes.  His  father  was  a  rich 
old  curmudgeon,  whom  no  one  liked.  The  son 
was  nothing  to  us  whatever. 

As  at  last,  in  the  deepening  twilight,  the 
people  reluctantly  began  moving  toward  home, 
such  conversation  as  they  had  the  heart  for 
seemed  to  be  exclusively  centred  upon  Miss 
Parmalee,  and  this  queer  despatch  of  hers. 
Slow-paced,  strolling  groups  wended  their  way 
along  the  main  street,  and  then  up  this  side 
thoroughfare  and  that,  passing  in  every  block 
some  dark  and  close-shuttered  house  of  mourn 
ing,  and  instinctively  sinking  still  lower  their 

76 


Marsena 


muffled  tones  as  they  passed,  and  carrying  in 
their  breasts,  heaven  only  knows  what  torturing 
loads  of  anguish  and  stricken  despair — but  find 
ing  a  certain  relief  in  dwelling,  instead,  upon 
this  lighter  topic. 

One  of  these  groups — an  elderly  lady  in 
black  attire  and  two  younger  women  of  sober 
mien — walked  apart  from  the  others  and  ex 
changed  no  words  at  all  until,  turning  a  corner, 
their  way  led  them  past  the  Parmalee  house. 
The  looming  bulk  of  the  old  mansion  and  the 
fragrant  spaciousness  of  the  garden  about  it 
seemed  to  attract  the  attention  of  Mrs.  Ransom 
and  her  daughters.  They  halted  as  by  a  com 
mon  impulse,  and  fastened  a  hostile  gaze  upon 
the  shadowy  outlines  of  the  house  and  its  sur 
rounding  foliage. 

"  If  Dwight  dies  of  his  wound,"  the  mother 
said,  in  a  voice  all  chilled  to  calmness,  "  his 
murderess  will  live  in  there." 

"I  always  hated  her!"  said  one  of  the 
daughters,  with  a  shudder. 

"But  he  isn't  going  to  die,  mamma,"  put 
in  the  other.  "  You  mustn't  think  of  such  a 
thing !  You  know  how  healthy  he  always  has 
been,  and  this  is  only  his  shoulder.  For  my 
part,  we  may  think  ourselves  very  fortunate. 
Remember  how  many  have  been  killed  or  mor- 

77 


Mar  sen  a 


tally  wounded.  It  seems  as  if  half  the  people 
we  know  are  in  mourning.  We  get  off  very 
lightly  with  Dwight  only  wounded.  Did  you 
happen  to  hear  the  details  about  Mr.  Pulford  ? 
— you  know,  the  photographer — someone  was 
saying  that  he  was  mortally  wounded." 

"  She  sent  him  to  his  death,  then,  too,"  said 
the  elder  Miss  Ransom,  raising  her  clenched 
hand  against  the  black  shadow  of  the  house. 

"  I  don't  care  about  that  man,"  broke  in  ihe 
mother,  icily.  "  Nobody  knows  anything  of 
him,  or  where  he  came  from.  People  ran  after 
him  because  he  was  good-looking,  but  he  never 
seemed  to  me  to  know  enough  to  come  in 
when  it  rained.  If  she  made  a  fool  of  him,  it 
was  his  own  lookout.  But  Dwight  —  my 
Dwight !  " 

The  mother's  mannered  voice  broke  into  a 
gasp,  and  she  bent  her  head  helplessly.  The 
daughters  went  to  her  side,  and  the  group 
passed  on  into  the  darkness. 


VI. 


IT  was  a  dark,  soft,  summer  night  in  Virginia, 
that  of  the  ist  of  July.  After  the  tropical 
heat  of  the  day,  the  air  was  being  mercifully 
cooled,  here  on  the  hilltop,  by  a  gentle  breeze, 
laden  with  just  a  moist  suggestion  of  the  mist 
rising  from  the  river  flats  and  marshes  down  be 
low.  It  was  not  Mother  Nature's  fault  that 
this  zephyr  stirring  along  the  parched  brow  of 
the  hill  did  not  bear  with  it,  too,  the  scents  of 
fruits  and  flowers,  of  new-mown  hay  and  the 
yellow  grain  in  shock,  and  minister  soothingly 
to  rest  and  pleasant  dreams. 

Instead,  this  breeze,  moving  mildly  in  the 
darkness,  was  one  vile,  embodied  stench  of  sul 
phur  and  blood,  and  pestilential  abominations. 
Go  where  you  would,  there  was  no  escaping 
this  insufferable  burden  of  foul  smells.  If  they 
were  a  horror  on  the  hilltop,  they  were  worse 
below. 

It  was  one  of  the  occasions  on  which  Man 
had  expended  all  his  powers  to  prove  his  supe 
riority  to  Nature.  The  elements  in  their  wild- 

79 


Mar  sena 


est  and  most  savage  mood  could  never  have 
wrought  such  butchery  as  this.  The  vine- 
wrapped  fences,  stretching  down  from  the  pla 
teau  toward  the  meadow  lands  below,  were  but 
tressed  by  piles  of  dead  men,  some  in  butternut, 
some  in  blue.  Clumps  of  stiffened  bodies 
curled  supine  at  the  base  of  every  stump  on  the 
fringe  of  the  woodland  to  the  right  and  among 
the  tumbled  sheaves  of  grain  to  the  left.  Out 
in  the  open,  the  broad,  sloping  hillside  and  the 
valley  bottom  lay  literally  hidden  under  ridge  • 
upon  ridge  of  smashed  and  riddled  human 
forms,  and  the  heaped  debris  of  human  battle. 
The  clouds  hung  thick  and  close  above,  as  if 
to  keep  the  stars  from  beholding  this  repellent 
sample  of  earth's  titanic  beast,  Man,  at  his 
worst.  An  Egyptian  blackness  was  over  it  all. 
At  intervals  a  lightning  flash  from  the  crest 
of  the  outermost  knoll  tore  this  evil  pall  of 
darkness  asunder,  and  then,  with  a  roar  and  a 
scream,  a  spluttering  line  of  vivid  flame  would 
arch  its  sinister  way  across  the  sky.  A  thou 
sand  little  dots  of  light  moved  and  zigzagged 
ceaselessly  on  the  wide  expanse  of  obscurity 
underneath  this  crest,  and  when  the  bursts 
of  wrathful  fireworks  came  from  overhead  it 
could  be  seen  that  these  were  lanterns  being 
borne  about  in  and  out  among  the  winrows  of 
80 


Marsena 


maimed  and  slain.  Above  all,  through  all, 
without  even  an  instant's  lull,  there  arose  a  ter 
rible  babel  of  chorused  groans  and  prayers  and 
howls  and  curses.  This  noise  could  be  heard 
for  miles — almost  as  far  as  the  boom  of  the  how 
itzers  above  could  carry  —  and  at  a  distance 
sounded  like  the  moaning  of  a  storm  through  a 
great  pine- forest.  Near  at  hand,  it  sounded 
like  nothing  else  this  side  of  hell. 

An  hour  or  so  after  nightfall  the  battery  on 
the  crest  of  the  knoll  stopped  firing.  The  wails 
and  shrieks  from  the  slope  below  went  on  all 
through  the  night,  and  the  lanterns  of  the  search 
parties  burned  till  the  morning  sunlight  put 
them  out. 

Up  on  the  top  of  the  hill — a  broad  expanse 
of  rolling  plateaus — the  scene  wore  a  different 
aspect.  At  widely  separated  points  bonfires 
and  glittering  lights  showed  where  some  gen 
eral  of  the  victorious  army  held  his  headquarters 
in  a  farm-house  ;  and  unless  one  pried  too  curi 
ously  about  these  parts,  there  were  few  enough 
evidences  on  the  summit  of  the  day's  barbaric 
doings. 

The  chief  of  these  houses — a  stately  and  an 
cient  structure,  built  in  colonial  days  of  brick 
proudly  brought  from  Europe — had  begun  the 
forenoon  of  the  battle  as  the  headquarters  of 
81 


Marsena 


the  Fifth  Corps.  Then  the  General  and  his 
staff  had  reduced  their  needs  to  a  couple  of 
rooms,  to  leave  space  for  wounded  men.  Then 
they  had  moved  out  altogether,  to  let  the  whole 
house  be  used  as  a  hospital.  Then  as  the  back 
wash  of  calamity  from  the  line  of  conflict 
swelled  in  size  and  volume,  the  stables  and 
barns  had  been  turned  over  to  the  medical  staff. 
Later,  as  the  savage  evening  fight  went  on,  tons 
of  new  hay  had  been  brought  out  and  strewn  in 
sheltered  places  under  the  open  sky  to  serve  as 
beds  for  the  sufferers.  Before  night  fell,  even 
these  impromptu  hospitals  were  overtaxed,  and 
rows  of  stricken  soldiers  lay  on  the  bare  ground. 
The  day  of  intelligent  and  efficient  hospital 
service  had  not  yet  dawned  for  our  army.  The 
breakdown  of  what  service  we  had  had,  under 
the  frightful  stress  of  the  battles  culminating  in 
this  blood-soaked  Malvern  Hill,  is  a  matter  of 
history,  and  it  can  be  viewed  the  more  calmly 
now  as  the  collapse  of  itself  brought  about  an 
improved  condition  of  affairs.  But  at  the  time 
it  was  a  woful  thing,  with  a  lax  and  conflict 
ing  organization,  insufficient  material,  a  ridicu 
lous  lack  of  nurses,  a  mere  handful  of  really 
competent  surgeons  and,  most  of  all,  a  great 
crowd  of  volunteer  medical  students  and  igno 
rant  practitioners,  who  flocked  southward  for 
82 


Marsena 


the  mere  excitement  and  practice  of  sawing, 
cutting,  slashing  right  and  left.  So  it  was  that 
army  surgery  lent  new  terrors  to  death  on  the 
battle-field  in  the  year  1862. 

The  sky  overhead  was  just  beginning  to  show 
the  ashen  touch  of  twilight,  when  two  men  ly 
ing  stretched  on  the  hay  in  a  corner  of  the 
smaller  barn -yard  chanced  to  turn  on  their 
hard  couch  and  to  recognize  each  other.  It 
was  a  slow  and  almost  scowling  recognition, 
and  at  first  bore  no  fruit  of  words. 

One  was  in  the  dress  of  a  lieutenant  of  artil 
lery,  muddy  and  begrimed  with  smoke,  and 
having  its  right  shoulder  torn  or  cut  open  from 
collar  to  elbow.  The  man  himself  had  now 
such  a  waving,  tangled  growth  of  chestnut 
beard  and  so  grimly  blackened  a  face,  that  it 
would  have  been  hard  to  place  him  as  our  easy 
going,  smiling  D wight  Ransom. 

The  new  movement  had  not  brought  ease, 
and  now,  after  a  few  grunts  of  pain  and  impa 
tience,  he  got  himself  laboriously  up  in  a  sitting 
posture,  dragged  a  knapsack  within  reach  up  to 
support  his  back,  and  looked  at  his  companion 
again. 

"  I  heard  that  you  were  down  here  some 
where,"  he  remarked,  at  last.  "  My  sister 
wrote  me." 

83 


Marsena 


Marsena  Pulford  stared  up  at  him,  made  a 
little  nodding  motion  of  the  head,  and  turned 
his  glance  again  into  the  sky  straight  above, 
lie  also  was  a  spectacle  of  dry  mud  and  dust, 
and  was  bearded  to  the  eyes. 

"  Where  are  you  hit?"  asked  Dwight,  after 
a  pause. 

For  answer,  Marsena  slowly,  and  with  an  ef 
fort,  put  a  hand  to  his  breast — to  the  left,  below 
the  heart.  "  Here,  somewhere,"  he  said,  in  a 
low,  dry-lipped  murmur.  He  did  not  look  at 
Dwight  again,  but  presently  asked,  "  Could 
you  fix  me — settin'  up — too?" 

"  I  guess  so,"  responded  Dwight.  With 
the  help  of  his  unhurt  arm  he  clambered  to  his 
feet  and  began  moving  dizzily  about  among  the 
row  of  wounded  men  to  his  left.  These  groaned 
or  snarled  at  him  as  he  passed  over  them,  but 
to  this  he  paid  no  attention  whatever.  He  re 
turned  from  the  end  of  the  line,  bringing  two 
knapsacks  and  the  battered  frame  of  a  drum,  in 
which  some  one  had  been  trying  to  carry  water, 
and  with  some  difficulty  arranged  these  in  a  sat 
isfactory  heap.  Then  he  knelt,  pushed  his  arm 
under  Marsena' s  shoulders,  and  lifted  him  up  and 
backward  to  the  support.  P>oth  men  grimaced 
and  winced  under  the  smart  of  the  effort,  and  for 
some  minutes  sat  in  silence,  with  closed  eyes. 

84 


Marsena 


When  they  opened  them  finally  it  was  with  a 
sudden  start  at  the  sound  of  a  woman's  voice. 
Their  ears  had  for  long  hours  been  inured  to  a 
ceaseless  din  of  other  noises — an  ear-splitting 
confusion  of  cannon  and  musketry  roar  from 
the  field  less  than  an  eighth  of  a  mile  away,  of 
yelping  shells  overhead,  and  of  screams  and 
hoarse  shouts  all  about  them.  Yet  their  senses 
caught  this  strange  note  of  a  woman's  voice  as 
if  it  had  fallen  upon  the  hush  of  midnight. 

They  looked  up,  and  beheld  Miss  Julia  Par- 
malee  ! 

Upon  such  a  background  of  heated  squalor, 
dirt,  and  murderous  disorder,  it  did  not  seem 
surprising  to  them  that  this  lady  should  present 
a  picture  of  cool,  fresh  neatness.  She  wore  a 
snow-white  nurse's  cap,  and  broad,  spotless 
bands  of  white  linen  were  crossed  over  the 
shoulders  of  her  pale  dove-colored  dress.  Her 
dark  face,  dusky  pink  at  the  cheeks,  glowed 
with  a  proud  excitement.  Her  big  brown  eyes 
swept  along  the  row  of  recumbent  figures  at 
her  feet  with  the  glance  of  a  born  conqueror. 

"  This  is  not  a  fit  place  for  him,"  she  said. 
"It  is  absurd  to  bring  a  gentleman — an  officer 
of  the  headquarters  staff — out  to  such  a  place 
as  this  !  " 

Then  the  two  volunteers  from  Octavius  saw 

85 


Marsena 


that  behind  her  were  four  men,  bearing  a  laden 
stretcher,  and  that  at  her  side  was  a  regimental 
hospital  steward,  who  also  looked  speculatively 
along  the  rows  of  sufferers. 

"It's  the  best  thing  we  can  do,  anyway," 
he  replied,  not  over  politely;  "and  for  that 
matter,  there's  hardly  room  here." 

"Oh,  there'd  be  no  trouble  about  that," 
retorted  Miss  Julia,  calmly.  "  We  could  move 
any  of  these  people  here.  The  General  told 
me  I  was  always  to  do  just  what  I  thought 
best.  I  am  sure  that  if  I  could  see  him  now 
he  would  insist  at  once  that  Colonel  Star- 
buck  should  have  a  bed  to  himself,  inside  the 
house." 

"I'll  bet  he  wouldn't!"  said  the  hospital 
steward,  with  emphasis. 

"Perhaps  you  don't  realize,"  put  in  Miss 
Julia,  coldly,  "  that  Colonel  Starbuck  is  a  staff 
officer — and  a  friend  of  mine." 

"I  don't  care  if  he  was  on  all  the  staffs 
there  are,"  said  the  hospital  steward,  "he's 
got  to  take  his  chance  with  the  rest.  And  it 
don't  matter  about  his  being  a  friend,  either; 
we  ain't  playing  favorites  much  just  now.  I 
don't  see  no  room  here,  Miss.  You'll  have  to 
take  him  out  in  the  open  lot  there." 

"Oh,  never!  "  protested  Miss  Julia,  vehe- 
86 


Mar  sena 


mently.  "  It's  disgraceful !  Why,  the  place  is 
under  fire  there.  I  saw  them  running  away 
from  a  shell  there  only  a  minute  ago.  No,  if 
we  can't  do  anything  better,  we'll  have  one  of 
these  men  moved." 

"Well,  do  something  pretty  quick  !  "  growl 
ed  one  of  the  men  supporting  the  stretcher. 

Miss  Parmalee  had  looked  two  or  three  times 
in  an  absent-minded  way  at  the  two  men  on 
the  ground  nearest  her — obviously  without  rec 
ognizing  either  of  them.  There  was  a  definite 
purpose  in  the  glance  she  now  bent  upon 
Dwight  Ransom — a  glance  framed  in  the  re 
sourceful  smile  he  remembered  so  well. 

"  You  seem  to  be  able  to  sit  up,  my  man," 
she  said,  ingratiatingly,  to  him  ;  "  would  you 
be  so  very  kind  as  to  let  me  have  that  place 
for  Colonel  Starbuck,  here — he  is  on  the  head 
quarters  staff — and  I  am  sure  we  should  be  so 
much  obliged.  You  will  easily  get  a  nice  place 
somewhere  else  for  yourself.  Oh,  thank  you  so 
much  !  It  is  so  good  of  you  !  ' ' 

Suppressing  a  groan  at  the  pain  the  move 
ment  involved,  and  without  a  word,  Dwight 
lifted  himself  slowly  to  his  feet,  and  stepped 
aside,  waving  a  hand  toward  the  hay  and 
knapsack  in  token  of  their  surrender. 

Then  Miss  Julia  helped  lift  from  the  litter  the 

87 


Mai'sena 


object  of  her  anxiety.  Colonel  Starbuck  was 
of  a  slender,  genteel  figure,  and  had  the  top  of 
his  head  swathed  heavily  in  bandages.  He  wore 
long,  curly,  brown  side-whiskers,  and  his  chin 
had  been  shaved  that  very  morning.  This  was 
enough  in  itself  to  indicate  that  he  belonged  to 
the  headquarters  staff,  but  the  fact  was  pro 
claimed  afresh  by  everything  else  about  him — 
his  speckless  uniform,  his  spick-and-span  gaunt 
lets,  his  carefully  polished  boots,  the  glittering 
newness  of  his  shoulder-straps,  sword  scabbard, 
buttons,  and  spurs.  It  was  clear  that,  what 
ever  else  had  happened,  his  line  of  communi 
cation  with  the  headquarters  baggage  train 
had  never  been  interrupted. 

"  It  is  so  kind  of  you  !  "  Miss  Parmalee mur 
mured  again,  when  the  staff  officer  had  been 
helped  off  the  stretcher,  and  in  a  dazed  and 
languid  way  had  settled  himself  down  into  the 
place  vacated  for  him.  "  Would  you  "  -  she 
whispered,  looking  up  now,  and  noting  that 
the  hospital  steward  and  the  litter-men  had 
gone  away — "  would  you  mind  stepping  over 
to  the  house,  or  to  one  of  the  tents  beyond— 
you'll  find  him  somewhere — and  asking  Dr. 
Willoughby  to  come  at  once  ?  Tell  him  it  is 
for  Colonel  Starbuck  of  the  headquarters  staff, 
and  you'd  better  mention  my  name — Miss 
88 


Marsena 


Parmalee,  of  the  Sanitary  Commission.  You 
won't  forget  the  name — Parmalee?  " 

"  I  don't  fancy  I  shall  forget  it,"  said  Dwight, 
gravely.  "  I've  got  a  better  memory  than 
some. ' ' 

Miss  Julia  caught  the  tone  of  voice  on  the 
instant,  and  looked  upward  again  from  where 
she  knelt  beside  the  Colonel,  with  a  swift  smile. 

"Why,  it's  Mr.  Ransom,  I  do  believe!" 
she  exclaimed.  "  I  should  never  have  known 
you  with  your  beard.  It's  so  good  of  you  to 
take  this  trouble — you  always  were  so  oblig 
ing  !  Any  one  will  tell  you  where  Dr.  Wil- 
loughby  is.  He's  the  surgeon  of  the  Eigh 
teenth,  you  know.  I'm  sure  he'll  come  at 
once — to  please  me — and  time  is  so  precious, 
you  know  !  " 

Without  further  words,  Dwight  moved  off 
slowly  and  unsteadily  toward  the  house. 

Miss  Parmalee,  seating  herself  so  that  some 
of  her  mouse-tinted  draperies  almost  touched 
the  face  of  Dwight's  companion,  unhooked  a 
fan  from  her  girdle  and  began  softly  fanning 
Colonel  Star  buck.  "  The  doctor  won't  be 
long,"  she  said,  in  low,  cooing  tones,  after  a 
little  ;  "  do  you  feel  easier  now?  " 

"  I  am  rather  dizzy  still,  and  a  little  faint," 
replied  the  Colonel,  languorously.  "  That 
89 


Mar  sena 


fanning  is  so  delicious  though,  that  I'm  really 
very  happy.  At  least  I  would  be  if  I  weren't 
nervous  about  you.  You  have  been  through 
such  tremendous  exertions  all  day — out  in  the 
sun,  amid  all  these  horrid  sights  and  this  in 
fernal  roar — without  a  parasol,  too.  Are  you 
quite  sure  it  has  not  been  too  much  for  you  ?  " 

"You  are  always  so  thoughtful  of  others, 
dear  Colonel  Starbuck,"  murmured  Miss  Julia, 
reducing  the  fanning  to  a  gentle,  measured 
movement,  and  fixing  her  lustrous  eyes  pen 
sively  upon  the  clouds  above  the  horizon. 
"  You  never  think  of  yourself !  " 

"  Only  to  think  how  happy  my  fate  is,  to  be 
rescued  and  nursed  by  an  angel,"  sighed  the 
Colonel. 

A  smile  of  gentle  deprecation  played  upon 
Miss  Julia's  red  lips,  and  imparted  to  her  eyes 
the  expression  they  would  wear  if  they  had 
been  gazing  upon  a  tenderly  entrancing  vision 
in  the  sky.  Then,  all  at  once  ;  she  gave  a  little 
start  of  aroused  attention,  looked  puzzled,  and 
after  a  moment's  pause  bent  her  head  over 
close  to  the  Colonel's. 

"  The  man  behind  me  has   taken   tight  hold 
of  my  dress,"    she  whispered,  hurriedly.      "I 
don't  want  to  turn  around,  but  can  you  see  him  ? 
He  isn't  having  a  fit  or  anything,  is  he?  " 
90 


Marsena 


Colonel  Starbuck  lifted  himself  a  trifle,  and 
looked  across.  "No,"  he  whispered  in  re 
turn,  "  he  appears  to  be  asleep.  Probably  he 
is  dreaming.  He  is  a  corporal — some  infantry 
regiment.  They  do  manage  to  get  so — what 
shall  I  say — so  unwashed  !  Shall  I  move  his 
hand  for  you  ?  ' ' 

Miss  Julia  shook  her  head,  with  an  arch 
little  half  smile. 

"No,  poor  man,"  she  murmured.  "  It  gives 
me  almost  a  sense  of  the  romantic.  Perhaps 
he  is  dreaming  of  home — of  some  one  dear  to 
him.  Corporals  do  have  their  romances,  you 
know,  as  well  as " 

"As  well  as  colonels,"  the  staff  officer  play 
fully  finished  the  sentence  for  her.  "  Well, 
I  congratulate  him,  if  his  is  a  thousandth  part 
as  joyful  as  mine." 

"Oh,  then,  you  have  one!"  pursued  Miss 
Parmalee,  allowing  her  eyes  to  sparkle  for  an 
instant  before  they  were  coyly  raised  again  to 
the  clouds.  Darkness  was  gathering  there 
rapidly. 

"  Why  pretend  that  you  don't  understand  ?  " 
pleaded  Colonel  Starbuck — and  there  seemed  to 
be  no  answer  forthcoming.  The  fan  moved 
even  more  sedately  now,  with  a  tender  flutter 
at  the  end  of  each  downward  sweep. 


Marsena 


Presently  the  preoccupation  of  the  couple — 
one  might  not  call  it  silence  in  such  an  un 
broken  uproar  as  rose  around  them  and 
smashed  through  the  air  above — was  inter 
rupted  by  the  appearance  of  a  young,  sharp- 
faced  man,  who  marched  straight  across  the 
yard  toward  them  and,  halting,  spoke  hur 
riedly. 

"  I  was  asked  specially  to  come  here  for  a 
moment,"  he  said,  "but  it  can  only  be  a 
minute.  We're  just  over  our  heads  in  work. 
What  is  it?  " 

Miss  Parmalee  looked  at  the  young  man  with 
a  favorless  eye.  He  was  unshaven,  dishevelled, 
brusque  of  manner  and  speech.  He  was  bare 
headed,  and  his  unimportant  figure  was  almost 
hidden  beneath  a  huge,  revoltingly  stained 
apron. 

"Tasked  for  my  friend,  Dr.  Willoughby," 
she  said.  ' '  But  if  he  could  not  come,  I  must  in 
sist  upon  immediate  attention  for  Colonel  Star- 
buck  here — an  officer  of  the  headquarter  staff. ' ' 

While  she  spoke  the  young  surgeon  had 
thrown  himself  on  one  knee,  adroitly  though 
roughly  lifted  the  Colonel's  bandages,  run  an 
inquiring  finger  over  his  skull,  and  plumped 
the  linen  back  again.  He  sprang  to  his  feet 
with  an  impatient  grunt.  "  Paltry  scalp 


Marsena 


wound,"  he  snorted.  Then,  turning  on  his 
heel,  he  almost  knocked  against  Dwight  Ran 
som,  who  had  come  slowly  up  behind  him. 

"You  had  no  business  to  drag  me  off  for 
foolishness  of  this  sort,"  he  said,  in  vexed 
tones.  "Here  are  thousands  of  men  waiting 
their  turn  who  really  need  help,  and  I've  been 
working  twenty  hours  a  day  for  a  week,  and 
couldn't  keep  up  with  the  work  if  every  day 
had  two  hundred  hours.  It's  ridiculous  !  " 

Dwight  shrugged  his  unhurt  shoulder.  "  I 
didn't  ask  you  for  myself,"  he  replied.  "  I'm 
quite  willing  to  wait  my  turn — but  the  lady 
here — she  asked  me  to  bring  help " 

"It  can't  be  that  this  gentleman  under 
stands,"  put  in  Miss  Julia,  "  that  his  assistance 
was  desired  for  an  officer  of  the  headquarters 
staff." 

"  Madame,"  said  the  young  surgeon,  "  with 
your  permission,  damn  the  headquarters  staff!  " 
and,  turning  abruptly,  he  strode  off. 

"  I  will  go  and  see  the  General  myself,"  ex 
claimed  Miss  Parmalee,  flushing  with  wrath. 
"I  will  see  whether  he  will  permit  the  Sani 
tary  Commission  to  be  affronted  in  this  out 
rageous ' ' 

She  stopped  short.  Her  indignant  effort  to 
rise  to  her  feet  had  been  checked  by  a  hand  on 

93 


Marsena 


firmly  the  ground,  which  held  in  its  grasp  a 
fold  of  her  skirt.  She  turned,  pulled  the  cloth 
from  the  clutch  of  the  tightened  fingers,  looked 
at  the  hand  as  it  sprawled  limply  on  the  grass, 
and  gave  a  little,  shuddering,  half-hysterical 
laugh.  "  Mercy  me  !  "  was  what  she  said. 

"You  know  who  it  is,  don't  you?"  asked 
Dwight  Ransom. 

The  meaning  in  his  voice  struck  Miss  Julia, 
and  she  bent  a  careful  scrutiny  through  the 
dusk  upon  the  face  of  the  man  stretched  out 
beside  her.  His  head  had  slipped  sidewise  on 
the  knapsack,  and  his  bearded  chin  was  unnatu 
rally  sunk  into  his  collar.  Through  the  grime 
on  his  face  could  be  discerned  an  unearthly 
pallor.  His  wide-open  eyes  seemed  staring 
fixedly,  reproachfully,  at  the  hand  which  had 
lost  its  hold  upon  Miss  Julia's  dress. 

"  It  does  seem  as  if  I'd  seen  the  face  before 
somewhere,"  she  remarked,  "  but  I  don't  ap 
pear  to  place  it.  It  is  getting  so  dark,  too. 
No,  I  can't  imagine.  Who  is  it?  " 

She  had  risen  to  her  feet  and  was  peering 
down  at  the  dead  man,  her  pretty  brows  knitted 
in  perplexity. 

"He  recognized  you!  "  said  Dwight,  with 
significant  gravity.  "  It's  Marsena  Pulford." 

"Oh,   poor  man  !"  exclaimed  Julia.      "If 

94 


Marsena 


he'd  only  spoken  to  me  I  would  gladly  have 
fanned  him,  too.  But  I  was  so  anxious  about 
the  Colonel  here  that  I  never  took  a  fair  look 
at  him.  I  dare  say  I  shouldn't  have  recognized 
him,  even  then.  Beards  do  change  one  so, 
don't  they  !  " 

Then  she  turned  to  Colonel  Starbuck  and 
made  answer  to  the  inquiry  of  his  lifted  eye 
brows. 

"  The  unfortunate  man,"  she  explained, 
"was  our  village  photographer.  I  sat  to  him 
for  my  picture  several  times.  I  think  I  have 
one  of  them  over  at  the  Commission  tent  now." 

"  I'll  go  this  minute  and  seize  it !  "  the  gal 
lant  Colonel  vowed,  getting  to  his  feet. 

"  Take  care  !  We  unprotected  females  have 
a  man  trap  there  !  ' '  Julia  warned  him  ;  but  fear 
did  not  deter  the  staff  officer  from  taking  her 
arm  and  leaning  on  it  as  they  walked  away  in 
the  twilight. 

Then  the  night  fell,  and  Dwight  buried 
Marsena. 


95 


The  War  Widow 


THE  WAR   WIDOW 

I. 

A  LTHOUGH  we  had  been  one  man  short 
JL\  all  day,  and  there  was  a  plain  threat  of 
rain  in  the  hot  air,  everybody  left  the  hay-field 
long  before  sundown.  It  was  too  much  to  ask 
of  human  nature  to  stay  off  up  in  the  remote 
meadows,  when  such  remarkable  things  were 
happening  down  around  the  house. 

Marcellus  Jones  and  I  were  in  the  pasture, 
watching  the  dog  get  the  cows  together  for  the 
homeward  march.  He  did  it  so  well  and, 
withal,  so  willingly,  that  there  was  no  call  for 
us  to  trouble  ourselves  in  keeping  up  with  him. 
We  waited  instead  at  the  open  bars  until  the 
hay -wagon  had  passed  through,  rocking  so 
heavily  in  the  ancient  pitch-hole,  as  it .  did  so, 
that  the  driver  was  nearly  thrown  off  his  perch 
on  the  top  of  the  high  load.  Then  we  put  up 
the  bars,  and  fell  in  close  behind  the  hay 
makers.  A  rich  cloud  of  dust,  far  ahead  on  the 
road,  suggested  that  the  dog  was  doing  his  work 

99 


The  War  Widow 


even  too  willingly,  but  for  the  once  we  feared 
no  rebuke.  Almost  anything  might  be  con 
doned  that  day. 

Five  grown-up  men  walked  abreast  down  the 
highway,  in  the  shadow  of  the  towering  wagon 
mow,  clad  much  alike  in  battered  straw  hats, 
gray  woollen  shirts  open  at  the  neck,  and  rough 
old  trousers  bulging  over  the  swollen,  creased 
ankles  of  thick  boots.  One  had  a  scythe  on 
his  arm ;  two  others  bore  forks  over  their 
shoulders.  By  request,  Hi  Tuckerman  allowed 
me  to  carry  his  sickle. 

Although  my  present  visit  to  the  farm  had 
been  of  only  a  few  days'  duration — and  those 
days  of  strenuous  activity  darkened  by  a  terri 
ble  grief — I  had  come  to  be  very  friendly  with 
Mr.  Tuckerman.  He  took  a  good  deal  more 
notice  of  me  than  the  others  did;  and,  when 
chance  and  leisure  afforded,  addressed  the  bulk 
of  his  remarks  to  me.  This  favoritism,  though 
it  fascinated  me,  was  not  without  its  embarrass 
ing  side.  Hi  Tuckerman  had  taken  part  in 
the  battle  of  Gaines's  Mill  two  years  before, 
and  had  been  shot  straight  through  the  tongue. 
One  could  still  see  the  deep  scar  on  each  of  his 
cheeks,  a  sunken  and  hairless  pit  in  among  his 
sandy  beard.  His  heroism  in  the  war  and 
his  good  qualities  as  a  citizen  had  earned  for 
100 


The  War  Widow 


him  the  esteem  of  his  neighbors,  and  they  saw 
to  it  that  he  never  wanted  for  work.  But 
their  present  respect  for  him  stopped  short  of 
the  pretence  that  they  enjoyed  hearing  him 
talk.  Whenever  he  attempted  conversation, 
people  moved  away,  or  began  boisterous  dia 
logues  with  one  another  to  drown  him  out. 
Being  a  sensitive  man,  he  had  come  to  prefer 
silence  to  these  rebuffs  among  those  he  knew. 
But  he  still  had  a  try  at  the  occasional  polite 
stranger — and  I  suppose  it  was  in  this  capacity 
that  I  won  his  heart.  Though  I  never  of  my 
own  initiative  understood  a  word  he  said,  Mar- 
cellus  sometimes  interpreted  a  sentence  or  so 
for  me,  and  I  listened  to  all  the  rest  with  a 
fraudulently  wise  face.  To  give  only  a  solitary 
illustration  of  the  tax  thus  levied  on  our  friend 
ship,  I  may  mention  that  when  Hi  Tuckerman 
said  "  Aah  /-ah-aa/i  /-uh,"  he  meant  "  Rap- 
pahannock,"  and  he  did  this  rather  better  than 
a  good  many  other  words. 

"  Rappahannock,"  alas!  was  a  word  we 
heard  often  enough  in  those  days,  along  with 
Chickahominy  and  Rapiclan,  and  that  odd 
Chattahoochee,  the  sound  of  which  raised  al- 
ways  in  my  boyish  mind  the  notion  that  the 
geography  -  makers  must  have  achieved  it  in 
their  baby-talk  period.  These  strange  South - 
101 


The  War  Widow 


ern  river  names  and  many  more  were  as  fa 
miliar  to  the  ears  of  these  four  other  untrav- 
elled  Dearborn  County  farmers  as  the  noise  of 
their  own  shallow  Nedahma  rattling  over  its 
pebbles  in  the  valley  yonder.  Only  when 
their  slow  fancy  fitted  substance  to  these  names 
they  saw  in  mind's  eye  dark,  sinister,  swampy 
currents,  deep  and  silent,  and  discolored  with 
human  blood. 

Two  of  these  men  who  strode  along  behind 
the  wagon  were  young  half -uncles  of  mine, 
Myron  and  Warren  Turnbull,  stout,  thick- 
shouldered,  honest  fellows  not  much  out  of 
their  teens,  who  worked  hard,  said  little,  and 
were  always  lumped  together  in  speech,  by  their 
family,  the  hired  help,  and  the  neighbors,  as 
"the  boys."  They  asserted  themselves  so 
rarely,  and  took  everything  as  it  came  with 
such  docility,  that  I  myself,  being  in  my  elev 
enth  year,  thought  of  them  as  very  young  in 
deed.  Next  them  walked  a  man,  hired  just 
for  the  haying,  named  Philleo,  and  then,  scuf 
fling  along  over  the  uneven  humps  and  hollows 
on  the  outer  edge  of  the  road,  came  Si  Hum- 
maston,  with  the  empty  ginger-beer  pail  knock 
ing  against  his  knees. 

As  Tuckerman's  "  Hi  "  stood  for  Hiram,  so 
I  assume  the  other's  "Si"  meant  Silas,  or 


102 


The  War  Widow 


possibly  Cyrus.  I  dare  say  no  one,  not  even 
his  mother,  had  ever  called  him  by  his  full 
name.  I  know  that  my  companion,  Marcellus 
Jones,  who  wouldn't  be  thirteen  until  after 
Thanksgiving,  habitually  addressed  him  as  Si, 
and  almost  daily  I  resolved  that  I  would  do  so 
myself.  He  was  a  man  of  more  than  fifty,  I 
should  think,  tall,  lean,  and  what  Marcellus 
called  "  bible-backed."  He  had  a  short  iron- 
gray  beard  and  long  hair.  Whenever  there 
was  any  very  hard  or  steady  work  going,  he 
generally  gave  out  and  went  to  sit  in  the  shade, 
holding  a  hand  flat  over  his  heart,  and  shaking 
his  head  dolefully.  This  kept  a  good  many 
from  hiring  him,  and  even  in  haying  -  time, 
when  everybody  on  two  legs  is  of  some  use,  I 
fancy  he  would  often  have  been  left  out  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  my  grandparents.  They  re 
spected  him  on  account  of  his  piety  and  his 
moral  character,  and  always  had  him  down 
when  extra  work  began.  He  was  said  to  be 
the  only  hired  man  in  the  township  who  could 
not  be  goaded  in  some  way  into  swearing. 
He  looked  at  one  slowly,  with  the  mild  expres 
sion  of  a  heifer  calf. 

We  had  come  to  the  crown  of  the  hill,  and 
the  wagon  started    down   the  steeper    incline, 
with  a  great  groaning  of  the  brake.     The  men, 
103 


The  War  Widow 


by  some  tacit  understanding,  halted  and  over 
looked  the  scene. 

The  big  old  stone  farm-house — part  of  which 
is  said  to  date  almost  to  the  Revolutionary 
times — was  just  below  us,  so  near,  indeed,  that 
Marcellus  said  he  had  once  skipped  a  scaling- 
stone  from  where  we  stood  to  its  roof.  The 
dense,  big-leafed  foliage  of  a  sap-bush,  sheltered 
in  the  basin  which  dipped  from  our  feet,  pretty 
well  hid  this  roof  now  from  view.  Farther  on, 
heavy  patches  of  a  paler,  brighter  green  marked 
the  orchard,  and  framed  one  side  of  a  cluster  of 
barns  and  stables,  at  the  end  of  which  three  or 
four  belated  cows  were  loitering  by  the  trough. 
It  was  so  still  that  we  could  hear  the  clatter  of 
the  stanchions  as  the  rest  of  the  herd  sought 
their  places  inside  the  milking-barn. 

The  men,  though,  had  no  eyes  for  all  this, 
but  bent  their  gaze  fixedly  on  the  road,  down 
at  the  bottom.  For  a  long  way  this  thorough 
fare  was  bordered  by  a  "row  of  tall  poplars, 
which,  as  we  were  placed,  receded  from  the 
vision  in  so  straight  a  line  that  they  seemed 
one  high,  fat  tree.  Beyond  these  one  saw  only 
a  line  of  richer  green,  where  the  vine-wrapped 
rail-fences  cleft  their  way  between  the  ripening 
fields. 

"  I'd  'a'  took  my  oath  it  was  them,"  said 
104 


The  War  Widow 


Philleo.  "  I  can  spot  them  grays  as  fur's  I  can 
see  'em.  They  turned  by  the  school  -  house 
there,  or  I'll  eat  it,  school-ma'am  'n'  all.  And 
the  buggy  was  follerin'  'em,  too." 

"Yes,  I  thought  it  was  them,"  said  Myron, 
shading  his  eyes  with  his  brown  hand. 

"  But  they  ought  to  got  past  the  poplars  by 
this  time,  then,"  remarked  Warren. 

"  Why,  they'll  be  drivin'  as  slow  as  molasses 
in  January,"  put  in  Si  Hummaston.  "  When 
you  come  to  think  of  it,  it  ts  pretty  nigh  the 
same  as  a  regular  funeral.  You  mark  my 
words,  your  father' 11  have  walked  them  grays 
every  step  of  the  road.  I  s'pose  he'll  drive 
himself — he  wouldn't  trust  bringin'  Alvy  home 
to  nobody  else,  would  he  ?  I  know  I  wouldn't, 
if  the  Lord  had  given  me  such  a  son  ;  but  then 
he  didn't  !  " 

"No,  He  didn't!"  commented  the  first 
speaker,  in  an  unnaturally  loud  tone  of  voice, 
to  break  in  upon  the  chance  that  Hi  Tuck- 
erman  was  going  to  try  to  talk.  But  Hi  only 
stretched  out  his  arm,  pointing  the  forefinger 
toward  the  poplars. 

Sure  enough,  something  was  in  motion  down 
at  the  base  of  the  shadows  on  the  road.  Then 
it  crept  forward,  out  in  the  sunlight,  and  sep 
arated  itself  into  two  vehicles.  A  farm  wagon 
105 


The  War  Widow 


came  first,  drawn  by  a  team  of  gray  horses. 
Close  after  it  followed  a  buggy,  with  its  black 
top  raised.  Both  advanced  so  slowly  that  they 
seemed  scarcely  to  be  moving  at  all. 

"  Well,  I  swan  !  "  exclaimed  Si  Hummas- 
ton,  after  a  minute,  "  it's  Dana  Pi  11s bury  driv- 
in'  the  wagon  after  all  !  Well — I  dtinno — yes, 
I  guess  that's  prob'bly  what  I'd  'a'  done  too, 
if  I'd  b'n  your  father.  Yes,  it  does  look  more 
correct,  his  follerin'  on  behind,  like  that.  I 
s'pose  that's  Alvy's  widder  in  the  buggy  there 
with  him." 

"  Yes,  that's  Serena — it  looks  like  her  little 
girl  with  her,"  said  Myron,  gravely. 

"  I  s'pose  we  might's  well  be  movin*  along 
down,"  observed  his  brother,  and  at  that  we 
all  started. 

We  walked  more  slowly  now,  matching  our 
gait  to  the  snail-like  progress  of  those  coming 
toward  us.  As  we  drew  near  to  the  gate,  the 
three  hired  men  instinctively  fell  behind  the 
brothers,  and  in  that  position  the  group  halted 
on  the  grass,  facing  our  drive- way  where  it  left 
the  main  road.  Not  a  word  was  uttered  by 
any  one.  When  at  last  the  wagon  came  up, 
Myron  and  Warren  took  off  their  hats,  and  the 
others  followed  suit,  all  holding  them  poised  at 
the  level  of  their  shoulders. 
1 06 


The  War  Widow 


Dana  Pillsbury,  carrying  himself  rigidly  up 
right  on  the  box-seat,  drove  past  us  with  eyes 
fixed  straight  ahead,  and  a  face  as  coldly  ex 
pressionless  as  that  of  a  wooden  Indian.  The 
wagon  was  covered  all  over  with  rubber  blank 
ets,  so  that  whatever  it  bore  was  hidden.  Only 
a  few  paces  behind  came  the  buggy,  and  my 
grandfather,  old  Arphaxed  Ttirnbull,  went  by 
in  his  turn  with  the  same  averted,  far-away 
gaze,  and  the  same  resolutely  stolid  counte 
nance.  He  held  the  restive  young  carriage 
horse  down  to  a  decorous  walk,  a  single  firm 
hand  on  the  tight  reins,  without  so  much  as 
looking  at  it.  The  strong  yellow  light  of  the 
declining  sun  poured  full  upon  his  long  gray 
beard,  his  shaven  upper  lip,  his  dark-skinned, 
lean,  domineering  face — and  made  me  think  of 
some  hard  and  gloomy  old  prophet  seeing  a 
vision,  in  the  back  part  of  the  Old  Testament. 
If  that  woman  beside  him,  swathed  in  heavy 
black  raiment,  and  holding  a  child  up  against 
her  arm,  was  my  Aunt  Serena,  I  should  never 
have  guessed  it. 

We  put  on  our  hats  again,  and  walked  up 
the  drive  -  way  with  measured  step  behind 
the  carriage  till  it  stopped  at  the  side-piazza 
stoop.  The  wagon  had  passed  on  toward  the 
big  new  red  barn — and  crossing  its  course  I 
107 


The  War 


saw  my  Aunt  Em,  bareheaded  and  with  her 
sleeves  rolled  up,  going  to  the  cow-barn  with 
a  milking-pail  in  her  hand.  She  was  walking 
quickly,  as  if  in  a  great  hurry. 

"There's  your  Ma,"  I  whispered  to  Marcel- 
lus,  assuming  that  he  would  share  my  surprise 
at  her  rushing  off  like  this,  instead  of  waiting 
to  say  'How-d'-do'  to  Serena.  He  only 
nodded  knowingly,  and  said  nothing. 

No  one  else  said  much  of  anything.  Myron 
and  Warren  shook  hands  in  stiff  solemnity  with 
the  veiled  and  craped  sister-in-law,  when  their 
father  had  helped  her  and  her  daughter  from 
the  buggy,  and  one  of  them  remarked  in  a  con 
strained  way  that  the  hot  spell  seemed  to  keep 
up  right  along.  The  new  comers  ascended  the 
steps  to  the  open  door,  and  the  woman  and 
child  went  inside.  Old  Arphaxed  turned  on 
the  threshold,  and  seemed  to  behold  us  for  the 
first  time. 

"  After  you've  put  out  the  horse,"  he  said, 
"I  want  the  most  of  yeh  to  come  up  to  the 
new  barn.  Si  Hummaston  and  Marcellus  can 
do  the  milkin'." 

"  I  kind  o'  rinched  my  wrist  this  forenoon," 
put  in  Si,  with  a  note  of  entreaty  in  his  voice. 
He  wanted  sorely  to  be  one  of  the  party  at  the 
red  barn. 

1 08 


The  War  Widow 


"Mebbe  milkin'  '11  be  good  for  it,"  said 
Arphaxed,  curtly.  "  You  and  Marcellus  do 
what  I  say,  and  keep  Sidney  with  you."  With 
this  he,  too,  went  into  the  house. 


109 


II. 


IT  wasn't  an  easy  matter  for  even  a  member 
of  the  family  like  myself  to  keep  clearly  and 
untangled  in  his  head  all  the  relationships 
which  existed  under  this  patriarchal  Turnbull 
roof. 

Old  Arphaxed  had  been  married  twice.  His 
first  wife  was  the  mother  of  two  children,  who 
grew  up,  and  the  older  of  these  was  my  father, 
Wilbur  Turnbull.  He  never  liked  farm-life, 
and  left  home  early,  not  without  some  hard 
feeling,  which  neither  father  nor  son  ever  quite 
forgot.  My  father  made  a  certain  success  of  it 
as  a  business  man  in  Albany  until,  in  the  thir 
ties,  his  health  broke  down.  He  died  when  I 
was  seven  and,  although  he  left  some  property, 
my  mother  was  forced  to  supplement  this  help 
by  herself  going  to  work  as  forewoman  in  a 
large  store.  She  was  too  busy  to  have  much 
time  for  visiting,  and  I  don't  think  there  was 
any  great  love  lost  between  her  and  the  people 
on  the  farm  ;  but  it  was  a  good  healthy  place 
for  me  to  be  sent  to  when  the  summer  vacation 

no 


The  War  Widow 


came,  and  withal  inexpensive,  and  so  the  first 
of  July  each  year  generally  found  me  out  at  the 
homestead,  where,  indeed,  nobody  pretended 
to  be  heatedly  fond  of  me,  but  where  I  was 
still  treated  well  and  enjoyed  myself.  This 
year  it  was  understood  that  my  mother  was 
coming  out  to  bring  me  home  later  on. 

The  other  child  of  that  first  marriage  was  a 
girl  who  was  spoken  of  in  youth  as  Emmeline, 
but  whom  I  knew  now  as  Aunt  Em.  She  was 
a  silent,  tough-fibred,  hard-working  creature, 
not  at  all  good-looking,  but  relentlessly  neat, 
and  the  best  cook  I  ever  knew.  Even  when  the 
house  was  filled  with  extra  hired  men,  no  one 
ever  thought  of  getting  in  any  female  help,  so 
tireless  and  so  resourceful  was  Em.  She  did 
alHhe  housework  there  was  to  do,  from  cellar 
to  garret,  was  continually  lending  a  hand  in  the 
men's  chores,  made  more  butter  than  the  house 
hold  could  eat  up,  managed  a  large  kitchen- 
garden,  and  still  had  a  good  deal  of  spare  time, 
which  she  spent  in  sitting  out  in  the  piazza  in 
a  starched  pink  calico  gown,  knitting  the  while 
she  watched  who  went  up  and  down  the  road. 
When  you  knew  her,  you  understood  how  it 
was  that  the  original  Turnbulls  had  come  into 
that  part  of  the  country  just  after  the  Revolu 
tion,  and  in  a  few  years  chopped  down  all  the 
in 


The  War  Widow 


forests,  dug  up  all  the  stumps,  drained  the  swale- 
lands,  and  turned  the  entire  place  from  a  wil 
derness  into  a  flourishing  and  fertile  home  for 
civilized  people.  I  used  to  feel,  when  I  looked 
at  her,  that  she  would  have  been  quite  equal  to 
doing  the  whole  thing  herself. 

All  at  once,  when  she  was  something  over 
thirty,  Em  had  up  and  married  a  mowing- 
machine  agent  named  Abel  Jones,  whom  no  one 
knew  anything  about,  and  who,  indeed,  had 
only  been  in  the  neighborhood  for  a  week  or 
so.  The  family  was  struck  dumb  with  amaze 
ment.  The  idea  of  Em's  dallying  with  the 
notion  of  matrimony  had  never  crossed  any 
body's  mind.  As  a  girl  she  had  never  had  any 
patience  with  husking-bees  or  dances  or  sleigh- 
ride  parties.  No  young  man  had  ever  seen  her 
home  from  anywhere,  or  had  had  the  remotest 
encouragement  to  hang  around  the  house.  She 
had  never  been  pretty — so  my  mother  told  me 
— and  as  she  got  along  in  years  grew  dumpy 
and  thick  in  figure,  with  a  plain,  fat  face,  a 
rather  scowling  brow,  and  an  abrupt,  ungracious 
manner.  She  had  no  conversational  gifts  what 
ever,  and,  through  years  of  increasing  taciturnity 
and  confirmed  unsociability,  built  up  in  every 
body's  mind  the  conviction  that,  if  there  could 
be  a  man  so  wild  and  unsettled  in  intellect  as 
112 


The  War  Widow 


to  suggest  a  tender  thought  to  Em,  he  would 
get  his  ears  cuffed  off  his  head  for  his  pains. 

Judge,  then,  how  like  a  thunderbolt  the 
episode  of  the  mowing  -  machine  agent  fell 
upon  the  family.  To  bewildered  astonishment 
there  soon  enough  succeeded  rage.  This  Jones 
was  a  curly  headed  man,  with  a  crinkly  black 
beard  like  those  of  Joseph's  brethren  in  the 
Bible  picture.  He  had  no  home  and  no  prop 
erty,  and  didn't  seem  to  amount  to  much  even 
as  a  salesman  of  other  people's  goods.  His 
machine  was  quite  the  worst  then  in  the  market, 
and  it  could  not  be  learned  that  he  had  sold  a 
single  one  in  the  county.  But  he  had  married 
Em,  and  it  was  calmly  proposed  that  he  should 
henceforth  regard  the  farm  as  his  home.  After 
this  point  had  been  sullenly  conceded,  it  turned 
out  that  Jones  was  a  widower,  and  had  a  boy 
nine  or  ten  years  old,  named  Marcellus,  who 
was  in  a  sort  of  orphan  asylum  in  Vermont. 
There  were  more  angry  scenes  between  father 
and  daughter,  and  a  good  deal  more  bad  blood, 
before  it  was  finally  agreed  that  the  boy  also 
should  come  and  live  on  the  farm. 

All  this  had  happened  in  1860  or  1861. 
Jones  had  somewhat  improved  on  acquaintance. 
He  knew  about  lightning-rods,  and  had  been 
able  to  fit  out  all  the  farm  buildings  with  them 


The  War  Widow 


at  cost  price.  He  had  turned  a  little  money 
now  and  again  in  trades  with  hop-poles,  butter- 
firkins,  shingles,  and  the  like,  and  he  was  very 
ingenious  in  mending  and  fixing  up  odds  and 
ends.  He  made  shelves  and  painted  the  wood 
work,  and  put  a  tar  roof  on  the  summer  kitchen. 
Even  Martha,  the  second  Mrs.  Turnbull,  came 
finally  to  admit  that  he  was  handy  about  a 
house. 

This  Martha  became  the  head  of  the  house 
hold  while  Em  was  still  a  little  girl.  She  was 
a  heavy  woman,  mentally  as  well  as  bodily, 
rather  prone  to  a  peevish  view  of  things,  and 
greatly  given  to  pride  in  herself  and  her  posi 
tion,  but  honest,  charitable  in  her  way,  and  not 
unkindly  at  heart.  On  the  whole  she  was  a 
good  stepmother,  and  Em  probably  got  on 
quite  as  well  with  her  as  she  would  have  done 
with  her  own  mother — even  in  the  matter  of 
the  mowing-machine  agent. 

To  Martha  three  sons  were  born.  The  two 
younger  ones,  Myron  and  Warren,  have  already 
been  seen.  The  eldest  boy,  Alva,  was  the 
pride  of  the  family,  and,  for  that  matter,  of  the 
whole  section. 

Alva  was  the  first  Turnbull  to  go  to  college. 
From  his  smallest  boyhood  it  had  been  manifest 
that  he  had  great  things  before  him,  so  hand- 
114 


The  War  Widow 


some  and  clever  and  winning  a  lad  was  he. 
Through  each  of  his  schooling  years  he  was  the 
honor  man  of  his  class,  and  he  finished  in  a  blaze 
of  glory  by  taking  the  Clark  Prize,  and  prac 
tically  everything  else  within  reach  in  the  way 
of  academic  distinctions.  He  studied  law  at 
Octavius,  in  the  office  of  Judge  Schermerhorn, 
and  in  a  little  time  was  not  only  that  distin 
guished  man's  partner,  but  distinctly  the  more 
important  figure  in  the  firm.  At  the  age  of 
twenty-five  he  was  sent  to  the  Assembly.  The 
next  year  they  made  him  District  Attorney,  and 
it  was  quite  understood  that  it  rested  with  him 
whether  he  should  be  sent  to  Congress  later  on, 
or  be  presented  by  the  Dearborn  County  bar 
for  the  next  vacancy  on  the  Supreme  Court 
bench. 

At  this  point  in  his  brilliant  career  he  married 
Miss  Serena  Wadsworth,  of  Wadsworth's  Falls. 
The  wedding  was  one  of  the  most  imposing 
social  events  the  county  had  known,  so  it  was 
said,  since  the  visit  of  Lafayette.  The  Wads- 
worths  were  an  older  family,  even,  than  the 
Fairchilds,  and  infinitely  more  fastidious  and 
refined.  The  daughters  of  the  household,  in 
deed,  carried  their  refinement  to  such  a  pitch 
that  they  lived  an  almost  solitary  life,  and 
grew  to  the  parlous  verge  of  old-maidhood 


The  War  Widow 


simply  because  there  was  nobody  good  enough 
to  marry  them.  Alva  Turnbull  was,  however, 
up  to  the  standard.  It  could  not  be  said,  of 
course,  that  his  home  surroundings  quite 
matched  those  of  his  bride  ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  she  was  nearly  two  years  his  senior,  and 
this  was  held  to  make  matters  about  even. 

In  a  year  or  so  came  the  War,  and  nowhere 
in  the  North  did  patriotic  excitement  run 
higher  than  in  this  old  abolition  stronghold  of 
upper  Dearborn.  Public  meetings  were  held, 
and  nearly  a  whole  regiment  was  raised  in  Oc- 
tavius  and  the  surrounding  towns  alone.  Alva 
Turnbull  made  the  most  stirring  and  important 
speech  at  the  first  big  gathering,  and  sent  a  thrill 
through  the  whole  country  side  by  claiming  the 
privilege  of  heading  the  list  of  volunteers.  He 
was  made  a  captain  by  general  acclaim,  and 
went  off  with  his  company  in  time  to  get  chased 
from  the  field  of  Bull  Run.  When  he  came 
home  on  a  furlough  in  1863  he  was  a  major, 
and  later  on  he  rose  to  be  lieutenant-colonel. 
We  understood  vaguely  that  he  might  have 
climbed  vastly  higher  in  promotion  but  for  the 
fact  that  he  was  too  moral  and  conscientious  to 
get  on  very  well  with  his  immediate  superior, 
General  Boyce,  of  Thessaly,  who  was  noto 
riously  a  drinking  man. 
116 


The  War  Widow 


It  was  glory  enough  to  have  him  at  the  farm, 
on  that  visit  of  his,  even  as  a  major.  His  old 
parents  literally  abased  themselves  at  his  feet, 
quite  tremulous  in  their  awed  pride  at  his  great 
ness.  It  made  it  almost  too  much  to  have 
Serena  there  also,  this  fair,  thin-faced,  prim- 
spoken  daughter  of  the  Wadsworths,  and  actu 
ally  to  call  her  by  her  first  name.  It  was  hay 
ing  time,  I  remember,  but  the  hired  men  that 
year  did  not  eat  their  meals  with  the  family, 
and  there  was  even  a  question  whether  Marcel- 
lus  and  I  were  socially  advanced  enough  to 
come  to  the  table,  where  Serena  and  her  hus 
band  were  feeding  themselves  in  state  with  a 
novel  kind  of  silver  implement  called  a  four- 
tined  fork.  If  Em  hadn't  put  her  foot  down, 
out  to  the  kitchen  we  should  both  have  gone, 
I  fancy.  As  it  was,  we  sat  decorously  at  the 
far  end  of  the  table,  and  asked  with  great  po 
liteness  to  have  things  passed  to  us,  which  by 
standing  up  we  could  have  reached  as  well  as 
not.  It  was  slow,  but  it  made  us  feel  immense 
ly  respectable,  almost  as  if  we  had  been  born 
Wadsworths  ourselves. 

We  agreed  that  Serena  was  "  stuck  up,"  and 

Marcellus  reported  Aunt  Em    as    feeling  that 

her  bringing  along  with  her  a  nursemaid  to  be 

waited  on  hand  and  foot,  just  to  take  care  of  a 

117 


The  War  Widow 


baby,  was  an  imposition  bordering  upon  the 
intolerable.  He  said  that  that  was  the  sort  of 
thing  the  English  did  until  George  Washing 
ton  rose  and  drove  them  out.  But  we  both 
felt  that  Alva  was  splendid. 

He  was  a  fine  creature  physically — taller  even 
than  old  Arphaxed,  with  huge  square  shoulders 
and  a  mighty  frame.  I  could  recall  him  as 
without  whiskers,  but  now  he  had  a  waving 
lustrous  brown  beard,  the  longest  and  biggest  I 
ever  saw.  He  didn't  pay  much  attention  to  us 
.boys,  it  was  true  ;  but  he  was  affable  when  we 
came  in  his  way,  and  he  gave  Myron  and  War 
ren  each  a  dollar  bill  when  they  went  to  Octa- 
vius  to  see  the  Fourth  of  July  doings.  In  the 
evening  some  of  the  more  important  neighbors 
would  drop  in,  and  then  Alva  would  talk  about 
the  War,  and  patriotism,  and  saving  the  Union, 
till  it  was  like  listening  to  Congress  itself.  He 
had  a  rich,  big  voice  which  filled  the  whole 
room,  so  that  the  hired  men  could  hear  every 
word  out  in  the  kitchen  ;  but  it  was  even  more 
affecting  to  see  him  walking  with  his  father 
down  under  the  poplars,  with  his  hands  making 
orator's  gestures  as  he  spoke,  and  old  Arphaxed 
looking  at  him  and  listening  with  shining  eyes. 

Well,  then,  he  and  his  wife  went  away  to 
visit  her  folks,  and  then  we  heard  -he  had  left  to 
118 


The  War  Widow 


join  his  regiment.  From  time  to  time  he  wrote 
to  his  father — letters  full  of  high  and  loyal  sen 
timents,  which  were  printed  next  week  in  the 
Octavius  Transcript,  and  the  week  after  in  the 
Thessaly  Banner  of  Liberty.  Whenever  any  of 
us  thought  about  the  War — and  who  thought 
much  of  anything  else? — it  was  always  with 
Alva  as  the  predominant  figure  in  every  picture. 

Sometimes  the  arrival  of  a  letter  for  Aunt  Em, 
or  a  chance  remark  about  a  broken  chair  or  a 
clock  hopelessly  out  of  kilter,  would  recall  for 
the  moment  the  fact  that  Abel  Jones  was  also 
at  the  seat  of  war.  He  had  enlisted  on  that 
very  night  when  Alva  headed  the  roll  of  honor, 
and  he  had  marched  away  in  Alva's  company. 
Somehow  he  got  no  promotion,  but  remained 
in  the  ranks.  Not  even  the  members  of  the 
family  were  shown  the  letters  Aunt  Em  re 
ceived,  much  less  the  printers  of  the  newspapers. 
They  were  indeed  poor  misspelled  scrawls, 
about  which  no  one  displayed  any  interest  or 
questioned  Aunt  Em.  Even  Marcellus  rarely 
spoke  of  his  father,  and  seemed  to  share  to  the 
full  the  family's  concentration  of  thought  upon 
Alva. 

Thus  matters  stood  when  spring  began  to 
play  at  being  summer  in  the  year  of  '64.  The 
birds  came  and  the  trees  burst  forth  into  green, 
119 


The  War  Widow 


the  sun  grew  hotter  and  the  days  longer,  the 
strawberries  hidden  under  the  big  leaves  in  our 
yard  started  into  shape,  where  the  blossoms  had 
been,  quite  in  the  ordinary,  annual  way,  with 
us  up  North.  But  down  where  that  dread  thing 
they  called  "The  War"  was  going  on,  this 
coming  of  warm  weather  meant  more  awful 
massacre,  more  tortured  hearts,  and  desolated 
homes,  than  ever  before.  I  can't  be  at  all  sure 
how  much  later  reading  and  associations  have 
helped  out  and  patched  up  what  seem  to  be  my 
boyish  recollections  of  this  period ;  but  it  is, 
at  all  events,  much  clearer  in  my  mind  than 
are  the  occurrences  of  the  week  before  last. 

We  heard  a  good  deal  about  howr  deep  the 
mud  was  in  Virginia  that  spring.  All  the 
photographs  and  tin-types  of  officers  which 
found  their  way  to  relatives  at  home,  now, 
showed  them  in  boots  that  came  up  to  their 
thighs.  Everybody  understood  that  as  soon  as 
this  mud  dried  up  a  little,  there  were  to  be 
most  terrific  doings.  The  two  great  lines  of 
armies  lay  scowling  at  each  other,  still  on  that 
blood-soaked  fighting  ground  between  Wash 
ington  and  Richmond  where  they  were  three 
years  before.  Only  now  things  were  to  go  dif 
ferently.  A  new  general  was  at  the  head  of 
affairs,  and  he  was  going  in,  with  jaws  set  and 
120 


The  War  Widow 


nerves  of  steel,  to  smash,  kill,  burn,  annihilate, 
sparing  nothing,  looking  not  to  right  or  left, 
till  the  red  road  had  been  hewed  through  to 
Richmond.  In  the  first  week  of  May  this 
thing  began — a  push  forward  all  along  the 
line — and  the  North,  with  scared  eyes  and  flut 
tering  heart,  held  its  breath. 

My  chief  personal  recollection  of  those  his 
toric  forty  days  is  that  one  morning  I  was 
awakened  early  by  a  noise  in  my  bedroom,  and 
saw  my  mother  looking  over  the  contents  of 
the  big  chest  of  drawers  which  stood  against 
the  wall.  She  was  getting  out  some  black 
articles  of  apparel.  When  she  discovered  that 
I  was  awake,  she  told  me  in  a  low  voice  that 
my  Uncle  Alva  had  been  killed.  Then  a  few 
weeks  later  my  school  closed,  and  I  was  packed 
off  to  the  farm  for  the  vacation.  It  will  be 
better  to  tell  what  had  happened  as  I  learned 
it  there  from  Marcellus  and  the  others. 

Along  about  the  middle  of  May,  the  weekly 
paper  came  up  from  Octavius,  and  old  Arphaxed 
Turnbull,  as  was  his  wont,  read  it  over  out  on 
the  piazza  before  supper.  Presently  he  called 
his  wife  to  him,  and  showed  her  something  in 
it.  Martha  went  out  into  the  kitchen,  where 
Aunt  Em  was  getting  the  meal  ready,  and  told 
her,  as  gently  as  she  could,  that  there  was  very 
121 


The  War  Widow 


bad  news  for  her  ;  in  fact,  her  husband,  Abel 
Jones,  had  been  killed  in  the  first  day's  battle 
in  the  Wilderness,  something  like  a  week  before. 
Aunt  Em  said  she  didn't  believe  it,  and  Martha 
brought  in  the  paper  and  pointed  out  the  fatal 
line  to  her.  It  was  not  quite  clear  whether  this 
convinced  Aunt  Em  or  not.  She  finished  get 
ting  supper,  and  sat  silently  through  the  meal, 
afterwards,  but  she  went  upstairs  to  her  room 
before  family  prayers.  The  next  day  she  was 
about  as  usual,  doing  the  work  and  saying 
nothing.  Marcellus  told  me  that  to  the  best 
of  his  belief  no  one  had  said  anything  to  her 
on  the  subject.  The  old  people  were  a  shade 
more  ceremonious  in  their  manner  toward  her, 
and  "the  boys"  and  the  hired  men  were  on 
the  lookout  to  bring  in  water  for  her  from  the 
well,  and  to  spare  her  as  much  as  possible  in 
the  routine  of  chores,  but  no  one  talked  about 
Jones.  Aunt  Em  did  not  put  on  mourning. 
She  made  a  black  necktie  for  Marcellus  to  wear 
to  church,  but  stayed  away  from  meeting  her 
self. 

A  little  more  than  a  fortnight  afterwards, 
Myron  was  walking  down  the  road  from  the 
meadows  one  afternoon,  when  he  saw  a  man 
on  horseback  coming  up  from  the  poplars,  gal 
loping  like  mad  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  The  two 
122 


The  War  Widow 


met  at  the  gate.  The  man  was  one  of  the  hired 
helps  of  the  Wadsworths,  and  he  had  ridden  as 
hard  as  he  could  pelt  from  the  Falls,  fifteen  miles 
away,  with  a  message,  which  now  he  gave 
Myron  to  read.  Both  man  and  beast  dripped 
sweat,  and  trembled  with  fatigued  excitement. 
The  youngster  eyed  them,  and  then  gazed 
meditatively  at  the  sealed  envelope  in  his 
hand. 

"I  s'pose  you  know  what's  inside?"  he 
asked,  looking  up  at  last. 

The  man  in  the  saddle  nodded,  with  a  tell 
tale  look  on  his  face,  and  breathing  heavily. 

Myron  handed  the  letter  back,  and  pushed 
the  gate  open.  "  You'd  better  go  up  and  give 
it  to  father  yourself,"  he  said.  "I  ain't  got 
the  heart  to  face  him — jest  now,  at  any  rate." 

Marcellus  was  fishing  that  afternoon,  over  in 
the  creek  which  ran  through  the  woods.  Just  as 
at  last  he  was  making  up  his  mind  that  it  must 
be  about  time  to  go  after  the  cows,  he  saw 
Myron  sitting  on  a  log  beside  the  forest  path, 
whittling  mechanically,  and  staring  at  the  fo 
liage  before  him,  in  an  obvious  brown  study. 
Marcellus  went  up  to  him,  and  had  to  speak 
twice  before  Myron  turned  his  head  and  looked 
up. 

"Oh!  it's  you,  eh,  Bubb?"  he  remarked 
123 


The  War  Widow 


dreamily,  and  began  gazing  once  more  into  the 
thicket. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  the  puzzled 
boy. 

"  I  guess  Alvy's  dead,"  replied  Myron.  To 
the  lad's  comments  and  questions  he  made 
small  answer.  "  No,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  don't 
feel  much  like  goin'  home  jest  now.  Lea'  me 
alone  here  ;  I'll  prob'ly  turn  up  later  on."  And 
Marcellus  went  alone  to  the  pasture,  and  thence, 
at  the  tail  of  his  bovine  procession,  home. 

When  he  arrived  he  regretted  not  having  re 
mained  with  Myron  in  the  woods.  It  was  like 
coming  into  something  which  was  prison,  hos 
pital,  and  tomb  in  one.  The  household  was 
paralyzed  with  horror  and  fright.  Martha  had 
gone  to  bed,  or  rather  had  been  put  there  by 
Em,  and  all  through  the  night,  when  he  woke 
up,  he  heard  her  broken  and  hysterical  voice  in 
moans  and  screams.  The  men  had  hitched  up 
the  grays,  and  Arphaxed  Turnbull  was  getting 
into  the  buggy  to  drive  to  Octavius  for  news 
when  the  boy  came  up.  He  looked  twenty 
years  older  than  he  had  at  noon — all  at  once 
turned  into  a  chalk-faced,  trembling,  infirm  old 
man — and  could  hardly  see  to  put  his  foot  on 
the  carriage-step.  His  son  Warren  had  offered 
to  go  with  him,  and  had  been  rebuffed  almost 

124 


The  War  Widow 


with  fierceness.  Warren  and  the  others  silently 
bowed  their  heads  before  this  mood  ;  instinct 
told  them  that  nothing  but  Arphaxed's  show  of 
temper  held  him  from  collapse — from  falling  at 
their  feet  and  grovelling  on  the  grass  with  cries 
and  sobs  of  anguish,  perhaps  even  dying  in  a 
fit.  After  he  had  driven  off  they  forbore  to 
talk  to  one  another,  but  went  about  noiselessly 
with  drooping  chins  and  knotted  brows. 

"It  jest  took  the  tuck  out  of  everything," 
said  Marcellns,  relating  these  tragic  events  to 
me.  There  was  not  much  else  to  tell.  Martha 
had  had  what  they  call  brain  fever,  and  had 
emerged  from  this  some  weeks  afterward  a 
pallid  and  dim-eyed  ghost  of  her  former  self, 
sitting  for  hours  together  in  her  rocking-chair  in 
the  unused  parlor,  her  hands  idly  in  her  lap, 
her  poor  thoughts  glued  ceaselessly  to  that  vague, 
far-off  Virginia  which  folks  told  about  as  hot  and 
sunny,  but  which  her  mind's  eye  saw  under  the 
gloom  of  an  endless  and  dreadful  night.  Ar- 
phaxed  had  gone  South,  still  defiantly  alone,  to 
bring  back  the  body  of  his  boy.  An  acquaint 
ance  wrote  to  them  of  his  being  down  sick  in 
Washington,  prostrated  by  the  heat  and  strange 
water ;  but  even  from  his  sick-bed  he  had  sent 
on  orders  to  an  undertaking  firm  out  at  the 
front,  along  with  a  hundred  dollars,  their  price 

125 


The  War  Widow 


in  advance  for  embalming.  Then,  recovering, 
he  had  himself  pushed  down  to  headquarters,  or 
as  near  them  as  civilians  might  approach,  only 
to  learn  that  he  had  passed  the  precious  freight 
on  the  way.  He  posted  back  again,  besieging 
the  railroad  officials  at  every  point  with  in 
quiries,  scolding,  arguing,  beseeching  in  turn, 
until  at  last  he  overtook  his  quest  at  Juno  Mills 
Junction,  only  a  score  of  miles  from  home. 

Then  only  he  wrote,  telling  people  his  plans. 
He  came  first  to  Octavius,  where  a  funeral  ser 
vice  was  held  in  the  forenoon,  with  military 
honors,  the  Wadsworths  as  the  principal  mourn 
ers,  and  a  memorable  turnout  of  distinguished 
citizens.  The  town-hall  was  draped  with  mourn 
ing,  and  so  was  Alva's  pew  in  the  Episcopal 
Church,  which  he  had  deserted  his  ancestral 
Methodism  to  join  after  his  marriage.  Old  Ar- 
phaxed  listened  to  the  novel  burial  service  of  his 
son's  communion,  and  watched  the  clergyman 
in  his  curious  white  and  black  vestments,  with 
sombre  pride.  He  himself  needed  and  desired 
only  a  plain  and  homely  religion,  but  it  was  fit 
ting  that  his  boy  should  have  organ  music  and 
flowers  and  a  ritual. 

Dana  Pillsbury  had  arrived  in  town  early  in 
the  morning  with  the  grays,  and  a  neighbor's 
boy  had  brought  in  the  buggy.  Immediately 
126 


Tbe  War  Widow 


after  dinner  Arphaxed  had  gathered  up  Alva's 
widow  and  little  daughter,  and  started  the  fu 
neral  cortege  upon  its  final  homeward  stage. 

And  so  I  saw  them  arrive  on  that  July  after 
noon. 


127 


III. 


FOR  so  good  and  patient  a  man,  Si  Hum- 
maston  bore  himself  rather  vehemently  during 
the  milking.  It  was  hotter  in  the  barn  than  it 
was  outside  in  the  sun,  and  the  stifling  air 
swarmed  with  flies,  which  seemed  to  follow  Si 
perversely  from  stall  to  stall  and  settle  on  his 
cow.  One  beast  put  her  hoof  square  in  his  pail, 
and  another  refused  altogether  to  "  give  down," 
while  the  rest  kept  up  a  tireless  slapping  and 
swishing  of  their  tails  very  hard  to  bear,  even  if 
one  had  the  help  of  profanity.  Marcellus  and  I 
listened  carefully  to  hear  him  at  last  provoked  to 
an  oath,  but  the  worst  thing  he  uttered,  even 
when  the  cow  stepped  in  the  milk,  was  "  Dum 
your  buttons!"  which  Marcellus  said  might 
conceivably  be  investigated  by  a  church  com 
mittee,  but  was  hardly  out-and-out  swearing. 

I  remember  Si's  groans  and  objurgations, 
his  querulous  "  Hyst  there,  will  ye  !  "  his  hyp 
ocritical  "  So-boss  !  So-boss  !  "  his  despond 
ent  "  They  never  will  give  down  for  me!  " 
because  presently  there  was  crossed  upon  this 


The  War  Widow 


woof  of  peevish  impatience  the  web  of  a  curi 
ous  conversation. 

Si  had  been  so  slow  in  his  headway  against 
flapping  tails  and  restive  hoofs  that,  before  he 
had  got  up  to  the  end  of  the  row,  Aunt  Em 
had  finished  her  side.  She  brought  over  her 
stool  and  pail,  and  seated  herself  at  the  next 
cow  to  Hum  mas  ton's.  For  a  little,  one  heard 
only  the  resonant  din  of  the  stout  streams 
against  the  tin  ;  then,  as  the  bottom  was  cov 
ered,  there  came  the  ploughing  plash  of  milk 
on  milk,  and  Si  could  hear  himself  talk. 

"  S'pose  you  know  S'reny's  come,  'long 
with  your  father,"  he  remarked,  ingratiatingly. 

"  I  saw  'em  drive  in,  "  replied  Em. 

"  Whoa!  Hyst  there!  Hole  still,  can't 
ye  ?  I  didn't  know  if  you  quite  made  out  who 
she  was,  you  was  scootin'  'long  so  fast.  They 
ain't — Whoa  there! — they  ain't  nothin'  the 
matter  'twixt  you  and  her,  is  they  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  as  there  is,"  said  Em,  curtly. 
"  The  world's  big  enough  for  both  of  us — we 
ain't  no  call  to  bunk  into  each  other." 

"  No,  of  course — Now  you  stop  it  /—but  it 
looked  kind  o'  curious  to  me,  your  pikin'  off 
like  that,  without  waitin'  to  say  '  How-d'-do  ?  ' 
Of  course,  I  never  had  no  relation  by  marriage 
that  was  stuck-up  at  all,  or  looked  down  on  me 
129 


The  War  Widow 


— Stiddy  there  now  .' — but  I  guess  I  can  reelize 
pretty  much  how  you  feel  about  it.  I'm  a 
good  deal  of  a  hand  at  that.  It's  what  they 
call  imagination.  It's  a  gift,  you  know,  like 
good  looks,  or  preachin',  or  the  knack  o' 
makin'  money.  But  you  can't  help  what 
you're  born  with,  can  you?  I'd  been  a  heap 
better  off  if  my  gift  'd  be'n  in  some  other  di 
rection  ;  but,  as  I  tell  'em,  it  ain't  my  fault. 
And  my  imagination — ///',  there  !  git  over, 
will  yc  ? — it's  downright  cur'ous  sometimes, 
how  it  works.  Now  I  could  tell,  you  see,  that 
you  'n  S'reny  didn't  pull  together.  I  s'pose 
she  never  writ  a  line  to  you,  when  your  hus 
band  was  killed?  " 

11  Why  should  she  ?  "  demanded  Em.  "  We 
never  did  correspond.  What'd  be  the  sense  of 
beginning  then?  She  minds  her  affairs, 'n  I 
mind  mine.  Who  wanted  her  to  write?  " 

"Oh,  of  course  not,"  said  Si,  lightly. 
"Prob'ly  you'll  get  along  better  together, 
though,  now  that  you'll  see  more  of  one  another. 
I  s'pose  S'reny 's  figurin'  on  stayin'  here  right 
along  now,  her  'n'  her  little  girl.  Well,  it'll  be 
nice  for  the  old  folks  to  have  somebody  they're 
fond  of.  They  jest  worshipped  the  ground 
Alvy  walked  on — and  I  s'pose  they  won't  be 
anything  in  this  wide  world  too  good  for  that 
130 


The  War  Widow 


little  girl  of  his.     Le's  see,  she  must  be  comin' 
on  three  now,  ain't  she  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  her!" 
snapped  Aunt  Em,  with  emphasis. 

"  Of  course,  it's  natural  the  old  folks  should 
feel  so — she  bein'  Alvy's  child.  I  hain't  no 
ticed  anything  special,  but  does  it — Well,  I 
swan  !  Hyst  there  ! — does  it  seem  to  you  that 
they're  as  good  to  Marcellus,  quite,  as  they  used 
to  be?  I  don't  hear  'em  sayin'  nothin'  about 
his  goin'  to  school  next  winter." 

Aunt  Em  said  nothing,  too,  but  milked  dog 
gedly  on.  Si  told  her  about  the  thickness  and 
profusion  of  Serena's  mourning,  guardedly  hint 
ed  at  the  injustice  done  him  by  not  allowing 
him  to  go  to  the  red  barn  with  the  others, 
speculated  on  the  likelihood  of  the  Wadsworths' 
contributing  to  their  daughter's  support,  and 
generally  exhibited  his  interest  in  the  family 
through  a  monologue  which  finished  only  with 
the  milking  ;  but  Aunt  Em  made  no  response 
whatever. 

When  the  last  pails  had  been  emptied  into 
the  big  cans  at  the  door — Marcellus  and  I  had 
let  the  cows  out  one  by  one  into  the  yard,  as 
their  individual  share  in  the  milking  ended — Si 
and  Em  saw  old  Arphaxed  wending  his  way 
across  from  the  house  to  the  red  barn.  He  ap- 


The  War  Widow 


peared  more  bent  than  ever,  but  he  walked  with 
a  slowness  which  seemed  born  of  reluctance 
even  more  than  of  infirmity. 

''Well,  now,"  mused  Si,  aloud,  "Brother 
Turnbull  an'  me's  be'n  friends  for  a  good  long 
spell.  I  don't  believe  he'd  be  mad  if  I  cut 
over  now  to  the  red  barn  too,  seein'  the  milk- 
in's  all  out  of  the  way.  Of  course  I  don't 
want  to  do  what  ain't  right — what  d'you  think 
now,  Em,  honest  ?  Think  it  'ud  rile  him?  " 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  it!"  my 
aunt  replied,  with  increased  vigor  of  emphasis. 
"  But  for  the  land  sake  go  somewhere  !  Don't 
hang  around  botherin'  me.  I  got  enough  else 
to  think  of  besides  your  everlasting  cackle." 

Thus  rebuffed,  Si  meandered  sadly  into  the 
cow-yard,  shaking  his  head  as  he  came.  Seeing 
us  seated  on  an  upturned  plough,  over  by  the 
fence,  from  which  point  we  had  a  perfect  view 
of  the  red  barn,  he  sauntered  toward  us,  and, 
halting  at  our  side,  looked  to  see  if  there  was 
room  enough  for  him  to  sit  also.  But  Mar- 
cellus,  in  quite  a  casual  way,  remarked,  "  Oh  ! 
wheeled  the  milk  over  to  the  house,  already, 
Si?"  and  at  this  the  doleful  man  lounged  off 
again  in  new  despondency,  got  out  the  wheel 
barrow,  and,  with  ostentatious  groans  of  travail 
hoisted  a  can  upon  it  and  started  off. 
132 


The  War  Widow 


"  He's  takin'  advantage  of  Arphaxed's  being 
so  worked  up  to  play  '  ole  soldier  '  on  him," 
said  Marcellus.  "  All  of  us  have  to  stir  him 
up  the  whole  time  to  keep  him  from  takin'  root 
somewhere.  I  told  him  this  afternoon  't'  if 
there  had  to  be  any  settin'  around  under  the 
bushes  an'  cryin',  the  fam'ly  'ud  do  it." 

We  talked  in  hushed  tones  as  we  sat  there 
watching  the  shut  doors  of  the  red  barn,  in 
boyish  conjecture  about  what  was  going  on  be 
hind  them.  I  recall  much  of  this  talk  with  curi 
ous  distinctness,  but  candidly  it  jars  now  upon 
my  maturer  nerves.  The  individual  man  looks 
back  upon  his  boyhood  with  much  the  same 
amused  amazement  that  the  race  feels  in  con 
templating  the  memorials  of  its  own  cave-dwell 
ing  or  bronze  period.  What  strange  savages 
we  were  !  In  those  days  Marcellus  and  I  used 
to  find  our  very  highest  delight  in  getting  off 
on  Thursdays,  and  going  over  to  Dave  Bush- 
nell's  slaughter-house,  to  witness  with  stony 
hearts,  and  from  as  close  a  coign  of  vantage  as 
might  be,  the  slaying  of  some  score  of  barnyard 
animals — the  very  thought  of  which  now  revolts 
our  grown-up  minds.  In  the  same  way  we  sat 
there  on  the  plough,  and  criticised  old  Arphax 
ed's  meanness  in  excluding  us  from  the  red 
barn,  where  the  men-folks  were  coming  in  final 

133 


The  War  Widow 


contact  with  the  "  pride  of  the  family."  Some 
of  the  cows  wandering  toward  us  began  to 
"moo"  with  impatience  for  the  pasture,  but 
Marcellus  said  there  was  no  hurry. 

All  at  once  we  discovered  that  Aunt  Em  was 
standing  a  few  yards  away  from  us,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  fence.  We  could  see  her  from  where 
we  sat  by  only  turning  a  little — a  motionless, 
stout,  upright  figure,  with  a  pail  in  her  hand, 
and  a  sternly  impassive  look  on  her  face.  She, 
too,  had  her  gaze  fixed  upon  the  red  barn,  and, 
though  the  declining  sun  was  full  in  her  eyes, 
seemed  incapable  of  blinking,  but  just  stared 
coldly,  straight  ahead. 

Suddenly  an  unaccustomed  voice  fell  upon 
our  ears.  Turning,  we  saw  that  a  black -robed 
woman,  with  a  black  wrap  of  some  sort  about 
her  head,  had  come  up  to  where  Aunt  Em 
stood,  and  was  at  her  shoulder.  Marcellus 
nudged  me,  and  whispered,  "It's  S'reny. 
Look  out  for  squalls  !  ' '  And  then  we  listened 
in  silence. 

"Won't  you  speak  to  me  at  all,  Emme- 
line  ?  "  we  heard  this  new  voice  say. 

Aunt  Em's  face,  sharply  outlined  in  profile 
against  the  sky,  never  moved.  Her  lips  were 
pressed  into  a  single  line,  and  she  kept  her  eyes 
on  the  barn. 

134 


The  War  Widow 


"If  there's  anything  I've  done,  tell  me," 
pursued  the  other.  ' '  In  such  an  hour  as  this — 
when  both  our  hearts  are  bleeding  so,  and — 
and  every  breath  we  draw  is  like  a  curse  upon  us — 

it  doesn't  seem  a  fit  time  for  us — for  us  to " 

The  voice  faltered  and  broke,  leaving  the 
speech  unfinished. 

Aunt  Em  kept  silence  so  long  that  we  fancied 
this  appeal,  too,  had  failed.  Then  abruptly, 
and  without  moving  her  head,  she  dropped  a 
few  ungracious  words  as  it  were  over  her  shoul 
der,  "  If  I  had  anything  special  to  say,  most 
likely  I'd  say  it,"  she  remarked. 

We  could  hear  the  sigh  that  Serena  drew. 
She  lifted  her  shawled  head,  and  for  a  moment 
seemed  as  if  about  to  turn.  Then  she  changed 
her  mind,  apparently,  for  she  took  a  step  nearer 
to  the  other. 

"  See  here,  Emmeline,"  she  said,  in  a  more 
confident  tone.  "  Nobody  in  the  world  knows 
better  than  I  do  how  thoroughly  good  a  woman 
you  are,  how  you  have  done  your  duty,  and 
more  than  your  duty,  by  your  parents  and  your 
brothers,  and  your  little  step-son.  You  have 
never  spared  yourself  for  them,  day  or  night.  I 
have  said  often  to — to  him  who  has  gone — that 
I  didn't  believe  there  was  anywhere  on  earth  a 
worthier  or  more  devoted  woman  than  you,  his 

135 


The  War  Widow 


sister.  And — now  that  -he  is  gone — and  we  are 
both  more  sisters  than  ever  in  affliction — why 
in  Heaven's  name  should  you  behave  like  this 
to  me  ?  ' ' 

Aunt  Em  spoke  more  readily  this  time.  '•  I 
don't  know  as  I've  done  anything  to  you,"  she 
said  in  defence.  "  I've  just  let  you  alone,  that's 
all.  An'  that's  doin'  as  I'd  like  to  be  done 
by."  Still  she  did  not  turn  her  head,  or  lift 
her  steady  gaze  from  those  closed  doors. 

"  Don't  let  us  split  words!  "  entreated  the 
other,  venturing  a  thin,  white  hand  upon  Aunt 
Em's  shoulder.  "  That  isn't  the  way  we  two 
ought  to  stand  to  each  other.  Why,  you  were 
friendly  enough  when  I  was  here  before.  Can't 
it  be  the  same  again  ?  What  has  happened  to 
change  it  ?  Only  to-day,  on  our  way  up  here, 
I  was  speaking  to  your  father  about  yon,  and 
my  deep  sympathy  for  you,  and " 

Aunt  Em  wheeled  like  a  flash.  "  Yes,  V 
what  did  Siesay  ?  Come,  don't  make  up  any 
thing  !  Out  with  it !  What  did  he  say  ?  "  She 
shook  off  the  hand  on  her  shoulder  as  she  spoke. 

Gesture  and  voice  and  frowning  vigor  of 
mien  were  all  so  imperative  and  rough  that  they 
seemed  to  bewilder  Serena.  She,  too,  had 
turned  now,  so  that  I  could  see  her  wan  and 
delicate  face,  framed  in  the  laced  festoons  of 
136 


The  War 


black,  like  the  fabulous  countenance  of  "  The 
Lady  Inez"  in  my  mother's  "Album  of 
Beauty."  She  bent  her  brows  in  hurried 
thought,  and  began  stammering,  "Well,  he 
said — Let's  see — he  said " 

"Oh,  yes!"  broke  in  Aunt  Em,  with 
raucous  irony,  "  I  know  well  enough  what  he 
said  !  He  said  I  was  a  good  worker — that 
they'd  never  had  to  have  a  hired  girl  since  I 
was  big  enough  to  wag  a  churn  dash,  an'  they 
wouldn't  known  what  to  do  without  me.  I  know 
all  that;  I've  heard  it  on  an'  off  for  twenty 
years.  What  I'd  like  to  hear  is,  did  he  tell  you 
that  he  went  down  South  to  bring  back  your 
husband,  an'  that  he  never  so  much  as  give  a 
thought  to  fetchin'  my  husband,  who  was  just 
as  good  a  soldier  and  died  just  as  bravely  as 
yours  did  ?  I'd  like  to  know — did  he  tell 
you  that  ?  ' ' 

What  could  Serena  do  but  shake  her  head, 
and  bow  it  in  silence  before  this  bitter  gale  of 
words  ? 

"An'  tell  me  this,  too,"  Aunt  Em  went  on, 
lifting  her  harsh  voice  mercilessly,  "  when  you 
was  settin'  there  in  church  this  forenoon,  with 
the  soldiers  out,  an'  the  bells  tollin'  an'  all 
that — did  he  say  '  This  is  some  for  Alvy,  an' 
some  for  Abel,  who  went  to  the  war  together, 

137 


The  War  Widow 


an'  was  killed  together,  or  within  a  month  o* 
one  another  ?  '  Did  he  say  that,  or  look  for 
one  solitary  minute  as  if  he  thought  it  ?  I'll 
bet  he  didn't  !  " 

Serena's  head  sank  lower  still,  and  she  put  up, 
in  a  blinded  sort  of  a  way,  a  little  white  hand 
kerchief  to  her  eyes.  "  But  why  blame  me  ?" 
she  asked. 

Aunt  Em  heard  her  own  voice  so  seldom 
that  the  sound  of  it  now  seemed  to  intoxicate 
her.  "No!"  she  shouted.  "It's  like  the 
Bible.  One  was  taken  an'  the  other  left.  It 
was  always  Alvy  this,  an'  Alvy  that,  nothin*  for 
any  one  but  Alvy.  That  was  all  right ;  nobody 
complained  :  prob'ly  he  deserved  it  all ;  at  any 
rate,  we  didn't  begrudge  him  any  of  it,  while 
he  was  livin'.  But  there  ought  to  be  a  limit 
somewhere.  When  a  man's  dead,  he's  pretty 
much  about  on  an  equality  with  other  dead 
men,  one  would  think.  But  it  ain't  so.  One 
man  gets  hunted  after  when  he's  shot,  an' 
there's  a  hundred  dollars  for  embalmin'  him  an' 
a  journey  after  him,  an'  bringin'  him  home, 
an'  two  big  funerals,  an'  crape  for  his  widow 
that'd  stand  by  itself.  The  other  man — he  can 
lay  where  he  fell  !  Them  that's  lookin'  for  the 
first  one  are  right  close  by — it  ain't  more'n  a 
few  miles  from  the  Wilderness  to  Cold  Harbor, 

138 


The  War  Widow 


so  Hi  Tuckerman  tells  me,  an'  he  was  all  over 
the  ground  two  years  ago — but  nobody  looks 
for  this  other  man  !  Oh,  no  !  Nobody  so  much 
as  remembers  to  think  of  him  !  They  ain't  no 
hundred  dollars,  no,  not  so  much  as  fifty  cents, 
for  embalmin'  him!  No — he  could  be  shovelled 
in  anywhere,  or  maybe  burned  up  when  the 
woods  got  on  fire  that  night,  the  night  of 
the  sixth.  They  ain't  no  funeral  for  him — 
no  bells  tolled — unless  it  may  be  a  cowbell  up 
in  the  pasture  that  he  hammered  out  himself. 
An'  his  widow  can  go  around,  week  days  an' 
Sundays,  in  her  old  calico  dresses.  Nobody 
ever  mentions  the  word  '  mournin'  crape'  to 
her,  or  asks  her  if  she'd  like  to  put  on  black.  I 
'spose  they  thought  if  they  gave  me  the  money 
for  some  mournin'  I'd  buy  candy  with  it  in 
stead  !  ' ' 

With  this  climax  of  flaming  sarcasm  Aunt  Em 
stopped,  her  eyes  aglow,  her  thick  breast  heav 
ing  in  a  flurry  of  breathlessness.  She  had  never 
talked  so  much  or  so  fast  before  in  her  life.  She 
swung  the  empty  tin-pail  now  defiantly  at  her 
side  to  hide  the  fact  that  her  arms  were  shaking 
with  excitement.  Every  instant  it  looked  as  if 
she  was  going  to  begin  again. 

Serena  had  taken  the  handkerchief  down  from 
her  eyes  and  held  her  arms  stiff  and  straight  by 

139 


The  War  Widow 


her  side.  Her  chin  seemed  to  have  grown 
longer  or  to  be  thrust  forward  more.  When  she 
spoke,  it  was  in  a  colder  voice — almost  mincing 
in  the  way  it  cut  off  the  words. 

"All  this  is  not  my  doing,"  she  said.  "  I 
am  to  blame  for  nothing  of  it.  As  I  tried  to 
tell  you,  I  sympathize  deeply  with  your  grief. 
But  grief  ought  to  make  people  at  least  fair, 
even  if  it  cannot  make  them  gentle  and  soften 
their  hearts.  I  shall  trouble  you  with  no  more 
offers  of  friendship.  1— I  think  I  will  go  back 
to  the  house  now — to  my  little  girl." 

Even  as  she  spoke,  there  came  from  the  direc 
tion  of  the  red  barn  a  shrill,  creaking  noise 
which  we  all  knew.  At  the  sound  Marcellus 
and  I  stood  up,  and  Serena  forgot  her  intention 
to  go  away.  The  barn  doors,  yelping  as  they 
moved  on  their  dry  rollers,  had  been  pushed 
wide  open. 


140 


IV. 


THE  first  one  to  emerge  from  the  barn  was 
Hi  Tucker  man.  He  started  to  make  for  the 
house,  but,  when  he  caught  sight  of  our  group, 
came  running  toward  us  at  the  top  of  his  speed, 
uttering  incoherent  shouts  as  he  advanced,  and 
waving  his  arms  excitedly.  It  was  apparent  that 
something  out  of  the  ordinary  had  happened. 

We  were  but  little  the  wiser  as  to  this  some 
thing,  when  Hi  had  come  to  a  halt  before  us, 
and  was  pouring  out  a  volley  of  explanations, 
accompanied  by  earnest  grimaces  and  strenuous 
gestures.  Even  Marcellus  could  make  next  to 
nothing  of  what  he  was  trying  to  convey;  but 
Aunt  Em,  strangely  enough,  seemed  to  under 
stand  him.  Still  slightly  trembling,  and  with 
a  little  occasional  catch  in  her  breath,  she  bent 
an  intent  scrutiny  upon  Hi,  and  nodded  com- 
prehendingly  from  time  to  time,  with  encour 
aging  exclamations,  "  He  did,  eh  !  "  "Is  that 
so?"  and  "  I  expected  as  much."  Listening 
and  watching,  I  formed  the  uncharitable  con 
viction  that  she  did  not  really  understand  Hi  at 
141 


The  War  Widow 


all,  but  was  only  pretending  to  do  so  in  order 
further  to  harrow  Serena's  feelings. 

Doubtless  I  was  wrong,  for  presently  she 
turned,  with  an  effort,  to  her  sister-in-law,  and 
remarked,  "P'rhaps  you  don't  quite  follow 
what  he's  say  in'  ?  " 

"  Not  a  word  !  "  said  Serena,  eagerly. 
"  Tell  me,  please,  Emmeline  !  " 

Aunt  Em  seemed  to  hesitate.  "  He  was  shot 
through  the  mouth  at  Gaines's  Mills,  you  know 
—  that's  right  near  Cold  Harbor  and  —  the 
Wilderness,"  she  said,  obviously  making  talk. 

"  That  isn't  what  he's  saying,"  broke  in 
Serena.  "  What  is  it,  Emmeline?  " 

"  Well,"  rejoined  the  other,  after  an  instant's 
pause,  "if  you  want  to  know — he  says  that  it 
ain't  Alvy  at  all  that  they've  got  there  in  the 
barn." 

Serena  turned  swiftly,  so  that  we  could  not 
see  her  face. 

"  He  says  it's  some  strange  man,"  continued 
Em,  "  a  yaller-headed  man,  all  packed  an' 
stuffed  with  charcoal,  so't  his  own  mother 
wouldn't  know  him.  Who  it  is  nobody  kno\vs, 
but  it  ain't  Alvy." 

"  They're  a  pack  of  robbers  V  swindlers  !  " 
cried  old  Arphaxed,  shaking  his  long  gray 
beard  with  wrath. 


142 


The  War  Widow 


He  had  come  up  without  our  noticing  his 
approach,  so  rapt  had  been  our  absorption  in 
the  strange  discovery  reported  by  Hi  Tucker- 
man.  Behind  him  straggled  the  boys  and  the 
hired  men,  whom  Si  Hummaston  had  scurried 
across  from  the  house  to  join.  No  one  said 
anything  now,  but  tacitly  deferred  to  the  old 
man's  principal  right  to  speak.  It  was  a  relief 
to  hear  that  terrible  silence  of  his  broken  at 
all. 

"  They  ought  to  all  be  hung  !  "  he  cried,  in 
a  voice  to  which  the  excess  of  passion  over 
physical  strength  gave  a  melancholy  quaver. 
"I  paid  'em  what  they  asked — they  took  a 
hundred  dollars  o'  my  money — an'  they  ain't 
sent  me  him  at  all !  There  I  went,  at  my  age, 
all  through  the  Wilderness,  almost  clear  to  Cold 
Harbor,  an'  that,  too,  gittin  up  from  a  sick 
bed  in  Washington,  and  then  huntin'  for  the  box 
at  New  York  an'  Albany,  an'  all  the  way  back, 
an'  holdin'  a  funeral  over  it  only  this  very  day 
— an'  here  it  ain't  him  at  all !  I'll  have  the  law 
on  'em  though,  if  it  costs  the  last  cent  I've  got 
in  the  world  !  ' ' 

Poor  old  man  !  These  weeks  of  crushing 
grief  and  strain  had  fairly  broken  him  down. 
We  listened  to  his  fierce  outpourings  with  sym 
pathetic  silence,  almost  thankful  that  he  had  left 

H3 


The  War  Widow 


strength  and  vitality  enough  still  to  get  angry 
and  shout.  He  had  been  always  a  hard  and 
gusty  man  ;  \ve  felt  by  instinct,  I  suppose,  that 
his  best  chance  of  weathering  this  terrible  month 
of  calamity  was  to  batter  his  way  furiously 
through  it,  in  a  rage  with  everything  and  every 
body. 

"  If  there's  any  justice  in  the  land,"  put  in 
Si  Hummaston,  "  you'd  ought  to  get  your  hun 
dred  dollars  back.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you 
could,  too,  if  you  sued  'em  afore  a  Jestice  that 
was  a  friend  of  yours." 

''Why,  the  man's  a  fool!"  burst  forth 
Arphaxed,  turning  toward  him  with  a  snort. 
"I  don't  want  the  hundred  dollars — I  wouldn't 
'a'  begrudged  a  thousand — if  only  they'd  dealt 
honestly  by  me.  I  paid  'em  their  own  figure, 
without  beatin'  'em  down  a  penny.  If  it  'dbe'n 
double,  I'd  'a'  paid  it.  What  /wanted  was  my 
boy!  It  ain't  so  much  their  cheatin'  me  I 
mind,  either,  if  it  'd  be'n  about  anything  else. 
But  to  think  of  Alvy — my  boy — after  all  the 
trouble  I  took,  an'  the  journey,  an'  my  sickness 
there  among  strangers — to  think  that  after  it  all 
he's  buried  down  there,  no  one  knows  where, 
p'raps  in  some  trench  with  private  soldiers, 
shovelled  in  anyhow — oh-h  !  they  ought  to  be 
hung  !  " 


The  War  Widow 


The  two  women  had  stood  motionless,  with 
their  gaze  on  the  grass ;  Aunt  Em  lifted  her 
head  at  this. 

"  If  a  place  is  good  enough  for  private  sol 
diers  to  be  buried  in,"  she  said,  vehemently, 
"  it's  good  enough  for  the  best  man  in  the 
army.  On  Resurrection  Day,  do  you  think 
them  with  shoulder-straps  '11  be  called  fust  an' 
given  all  the  front  places  ?  I  reckon  the  men 
that  carried  a  musket  are  every  whit  as  good, 
there  in  the  trench,  as  them  that  wore  swords. 
They  gave  their  lives  as  much  as  the  others  did, 
an'  the  best  man  that  ever  stepped  couldn't  do 
no  more." 

Old  Arphaxed  bent  upon  her  a  long  look, 
which  had  in  it  much  surprise  and  some  ele 
ments  of  menace.  Reflection  seemed,  how 
ever,  to  make  him  think  better  of  an  attack  on 
Aunt  Em.  He  went  on,  instead,  with  ram 
bling  exclamations  to  his  auditors  at  large. 

"  Makin'  me  the  butt  of  the  whole  county  !  " 
he  cried.  "There  was  that  funeral  to-day — 
with  a  parade  an'  a  choir  of  music  an'  so  on  : 
an'  now  it  '11  come  out  in  the  papers  that  it 
wasn't  Alvy  at  all  I  brought  back  with  me,  but 
only  some  perfect  stranger — by  what  you  can 
make  out  from  his  clothes,  not  even  an  officer 
at  all.  I  tell  you  the  War's  a  jedgment  on  this 

H5 


The  War  Widow 


country  for  its  wickedness,  for  its  cheat  in'  an' 
robbin'  of  honest  men  !  They  wa'n't  no  sense 
in  that  battle  at  Cold  Harbor  anyway — every 
body  admits  that !  It  was  murder  an'  mas' 
sacre  in  cold  blood — fifty  thousand  men 
mowed  down,  an'  nothin'  gained  by  it  !  An' 
then  not  even  to  git  my  boy's  dead  body  back  ! 
I  say  hangin's  too  good  for  'em  !  " 

1  'Yes,  father,"  said  Myron,  soothingly; 
"  but  do  you  stick  to  what  you  said  about  the 
— the  box?  Wouldn't  it  look  better " 

"  No  /"  shouted  Arphaxed,  with  emphasis. 
"  Let  Dana  do  what  I  told  him — take  it  down 
this  very  night  to  the  poor  master,  an'  let  him 
bury  it  where  he  likes.  It's  no  affair  of  mine. 
I  wash  my  hands  of  it.  There  won't  be  no 
funeral  held  here  !  ' ' 

It  was  then  that  Serena  spoke.  Strangely 
enough,  old  Arphaxed  had  not  seemed  to  no 
tice  her  presence  in  our  group,  and  his  jaw 
visibly  dropped  as  he  beheld  her  now  standing 
before  him.  He  made  a  gesture  signifying  his 
disturbance  at  finding  her  among  his  hearers, 
and  would  have  spoken,  but  she  held  up  her 
hand. 

"  Yes,  I  heard  it  all,"  she  said,  in  answer  to 
his  deprecatory  movement.  "  I  am  glad  I  did. 
It  has  given  me  time  to  get  over  the  shock  of 

146 


Tbe  War  Widow 


learning — our  mistake — and  it  gives  me  the 
chance  now  to  say  something  which  I  —  I 
feel  keenly.  The  poor  man  you  have  brought 
home  was,  you  say,  a  private  soldier.  Well, 
isn't  this  a  good  time  to  remember  that  there 
was  a  private  soldier  who  went  out  from  this 
farm — belonging  right  to  this  family — and  who, 
as  a  private,  laid  down  his  life  as  nobly  as 
General  Sedgwick  or  General  Wadsworth,  or 
even  our  dear  Alva,  or  any  one  else  ?  I  never 
met  Emmeline's  husband,  but  Alva  liked  him, 
and  spoke  to  me  often  of  him.  Men  who  fall 
in  the  ranks  don't  get  identified,  or  brought 
home,  but  they  deserve  funerals  as  much  as  the 
others — just  as  much.  Now,  this  is  my  idea : 
let  us  feel  that  the  mistake  which  has  brought 
this  poor  stranger  to  us  is  God's  way  of  giving 
us  a  chance  to  remember  and  do  honor  to  Abel 
Jones.  Let  him  be  buried  in  the  family  lot  up 
yonder,  where  we  had  thought  to  lay  Alva, 
and  let  us  do  it  reverently,  in  the  name  of 
Emmeline's  husband,  and  of  all  others  who 
have  fought  and  died  for  our  country,  and 
with  sympathy  in  our  hearts  for  the  women 
who,  somewhere  in  the  North,  are  mourning, 
just  as  we  mourn  here,  for  the  stranger  there  in 
the  red  barn." 

Arphaxed    had    watched   her   intently.     He 


The  War  Widow 


nodded  now,  and  blinked  at  the  moisture 
gathering  in  his  old  eyes.  "  1  could  e'en 
a'most  'a'  thought  it  was  Alvy  talkin',"  was 
what  he  said.  Then  he  turned  abruptly,  but 
we  all  knew,  without  further  words,  that  what 
Serena  had  suggested  was  to  be  done. 

The  men-folk,  wondering  doubtless  much 
among  themselves,  moved  slowly  off  toward  the 
house  or  the  cow-barns,  leaving  the  two  women 
alone.  A  minute  of  silence  passed  before  we 
saw  Serena  creep  gently  up  to  Aunt  Em's  side, 
and  lay  the  thin  white  hand  again  upon  her 
shoulder.  This  time  it  was  not  shaken  off, 
but  stretched  itself  forward,  little  by  little, 
until  its  palm  rested  against  Aunt  Em's  further 
cheek.  We  heard  the  tin-pail  fall  resonantly 
against  the  stones  under  the  rail-fence,  and 
there  was  a  confused  movement  as  if  the  two 
women  were  somehow  melting  into  one. 

"  Come  on,  Sid  !  "  said  Marcellus  Jones  to 
me;  "  let's  start  them  cows  along.  If  there's 
anything  I  hate  to  see  it's  women  cryin'  on 
each  other's  necks." 


148 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


THE   EVE  OF   THE  FOURTH 

IT  was   well  on  toward  evening  before  this 
Third  of  July  all  at  once  made  itself  glori 
ously  different  from  other  days  in  my  mind. 

There  was  a  very  long  afternoon,  I  remem 
ber,  hot  and  overcast,  with  continual  threats 
of  rain,  which  never  came  to  anything.  The 
other  boys  were  too  excited  about  the  morrow 
to  care  for  present  play.  They  sat  instead 
along  the  edge  of  the  broad  platform-stoop  in 
front  of  Delos  Ingersoll's  grocery-store,  their 
brown  feet  swinging  at  varying  heights  above 
the  sidewalk,  and  bragged  about  the  manner  in 
which  they  contemplated  celebrating  the  anni 
versary  of  their  Independence.  Most  of  the 
elder  lads  were  very  independent  indeed  ;  they 
were  already  secure  in  the  parental  permission 
to  stay  up  all  night,  so  that  the  Fourth  might 
be  ushered  in  with  its  full  quota  of  ceremonial. 
The  smaller  urchins  pretended  that  they  also 
had  this  permission,  or  were  sure  of  getting  it. 
Little  Denny  Cregan  attracted  admiring  atten 
tion  by  vowing  that  he  should  remain  out,  even 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


if  his  father  chased  him  with  a  policeman  all 
around  the  ward,  and  he  had  to  go  and  live  in 
a  cave  in  the  gulf  until  he  was  grown  up. 

My  inferiority  to  these  companions  of  mine 
depressed  me.  They  were  allowed  to  go  with 
out  shoes  and  stockings  ;  they  wore  loose  and 
comfortable  old  clothes,  and  were  under  no 
responsibility  to  keep  them  dry  or  clean  or 
whole  ;  they  had  their  pockets  literally  bulging 
now  with  all  sorts  of  portentous  engines  of  noise 
and  racket — huge  brown  "  double  -enders," 
bound  with  waxed  cord  ;  long,  slim,  vicious- 
looking  ' '  nigger-chasers  ;"  big  "  Union  tor 
pedoes,"  covered  with  clay,  which  made  a  re 
port  like  a  horse-pistol,  and  were  invaluable  for 
frightening  farmers'  horses  ;  and  so  on  through 
an  extended  catalogue  of  recondite  and  sinister 
explosives  upon  which  I  looked  with  awe,  as 
their  owners  from  time  to  time  exhibited  them 
with  the  proud  simplicity  of  those  accustomed 
to  greatness.  Several  of  these  boys  also  pos 
sessed  toy  cannons,  which  would  be  brought 
forth  at  twilight.  They  spoke  firmly  of  ram 
ming  them  to  the  muzzle  with  grass,  to  produce 
a  greater  noise — even  if  it  burst  them  and  killed 
everybody. 

By  comparison,  my  lot  was  one  of  abasement. 
I  was  a  solitary  child,  and  a  victim  to  conven- 

152 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


tions.  A  blue  necktie  was  daily  pinned  under 
my  Byron  collar,  and  there  were  gilt  buttons  on 
my  zouave  jacket.  When  we  were  away  in  the 
pasture  playground  near  the  gulf,  and  I  ven 
tured  to  take  off  my  foot-gear,  every  dry  old 
thistle-point  in  the  whole  territory  seemed  to 
arrange  itself  to  be  stepped  upon  by  my  whit 
ened  and  tender  soles.  I  could  not  swim  ;  so, 
while  my  lithe  bold  comrades  dived  out  of 
sight  under  the  deep  water,  and  darted  about 
chasing  one  another  far  beyond  their  depth,  I 
paddled  ignobly  around  the  "baby-hole" 
close  to  the  bank,  in  the  warm  and  muddy 
shallows. 

Especially  apparent  was  my  state  of  humilia 
tion  on  this  July  afternoon.  I  had  no  "  double- 
enders,"  nor  might  hope  for  any.  The  mere 
thought  of  a  private  cannon  seemed  monstrous 
and  unnatural  to  me.  By  some  unknown  pro 
cess  of  reasoning  my  mother  had  years  before  , 
reached  the  theory  that  a  good  boy  ought  to 
have  two  ten-cent  packs  of  small  fire-crackers 
on  the  Fourth  of  July.  Four  or  five  succeed 
ing  anniversaries  had  hardened  this  theory  into 
an  orthodox  tenet  of  faith,  with  all  its  observ 
ances  rigidly  fixed.  The  fire-crackers  were 
bought  for  me  overnight,  and  placed  on  the 
hall  table.  Beside  them  lay  a  long  rod  of 


The  Eve  of  tbe  Fourth 


punk.  When  I  hastened  down  and  out  in  the 
morning,  with  these  ceremonial  implements  in 
my  hands,  the  hired  girl  would  give  me,  in  an 
old  kettle,  some  embers  from  the  wood-fire  in 
the  summer  kitchen.  Thus  furnished,  I  went 
into  the  front  yard,  and  in  solemn  solitude  fired 
off  these  crackers  one  by  one.  Those  which, 
by  reason  of  having  lost  their  tails,  were  only 
fit  for  ''fizzes,"  I  saved  till  after  breakfast. 
With  the  exhaustion  of  these,  I  fell  reluctantly 
back  upon  the  public  for  entertainment.  I 
could  see  the  soldiers,  hear  the  band  and  the 
oration,  and  in  the  evening,  if  it  didn't  rain, 
enjoy  the  fireworks ;  but  my  own  contribution 
to  the  patriotic  noise  was  always  over  before 
the  breakfast  dishes  had  been  washed. 

My  mother  scorned  the  little  paper  torpedoes 
as  flippant  and  wasteful  things.  You  merely 
threw  one  of  them,  and  it  went  off,  she  said, 
and  there  you  were.  I  don't  know  that  I  ever 
grasped  this  objection  in  its  entirety,  but  it  im 
pressed  my  whole  childhood  with  its  unanswer- 
ableness.  Years  and  years  afterward,  when  my 
own  children  asked  for  torpedoes,  I  found  my 
self  unconsciously  advising  against  them  on 
quite  the  maternal  lines.  Nor  was  it  easy  to 
budge  the  good  lady  from  her  position  on  the 
great  two-packs  issue.  I  seem  to  recall  having 

154 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


successfully  undermined  it  once  or  twice,  but 
two  was  the  rule.  When  I  called  her  atten 
tion  to  the  fact  that  our  neighbor,  Tom  Hem 
ingway,  thought  nothing  of  exploding  a  whole 
pack  at  a  time  inside  their  wash-boiler,  she  was 
not  dazzled,  but  only  replied:  "  Wilful  waste 
makes  woful  want." 

Of  course  the  idea  of  the  Hemingways  ever 
knowing  what  want  meant  was  absurd.  They 
lived  a  dozen  doors  or  so  from  us,  in  a  big 
white  house  with  stately  white  columns  rising 
from  veranda  to  gable  across  the  whole  front, 
and  a  large  garden,  flowers  and  shrubs  in  front, 
fruit-trees  and  vegetables  behind.  Squire  Hem 
ingway  was  the  most  important  man  in  our  part 
of  the  town.  I  know  now  that  he  was  never 
anything  more  than  United  States  Commissioner 
of  Deeds,  but  in  those  days,  when  he  walked 
down  the  street  with  his  gold-headed  cane,  his 
blanket-shawl  folded  over  his  arm,  and  his 
severe,  dignified,  close-shaven  face  held  well 
up  in  the  air,  I  seemed  to  behold  a  companion 
of  Presidents. 

This  great  man  had  two  sons.  The  elder 
of  them,  De  Witt  Hemingway,  was  a  man 
grown,  and  was  at  the  front.  I  had  seen 
him  march  away,  over  a  year  before,  with  a 
bright  drawn  sword,  at  the  side  of  his  com- 

155 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


pany.  The  other  son,  Tom,  was  my  senior  by 
only  a  twelvemonth.  He  was  by  nature  proud, 
but  often  consented  to  consort  with  me  when 
the  selection  of  other  available  associates  was 
at  low  ebb. 

It  was  to  this  Tom  that  I  listened  with  most 
envious  eagerness,  in  front  of  the  grocery-store, 
on  the  afternoon  of  which  I  speak.  He  did 
not  sit  on  the  stoop  with  the  others — no  one 
expected  quite  that  degree  of  condescension — 
but  leaned  nonchalantly  against  a  post,  whit 
tling  out  a  new  ramrod  for  his  cannon.  He 
said  that  this  year  he  was  not  going  to  have 
any  ordinary  fire-crackers  at  all ;  they,  he  added 
with  a  meaning  glance  at  me,  were  only  fit  for 
girls.  He  might  do  a  little  in  "  double-end- 
ers,"  but  his  real  point  would  be  in  "  ringers  " — 
an  incredible  giant  variety  of  cracker,  Turkey- 
red  like  the  other,  but  in  size  almost  a  rolling- 
pin.  Some  of  these  he  would  fire  off  singly, 
between  volleys  from  his  cannon.  But  a  good 
many  he  intended  to  explode,  in  bunches  say 
of  six,  inside  the  tin  wash-boiler,  brought  out 
into  the  middle  of  the  road  for  that  purpose. 
It  would  doubtless  blow  the  old  thing  sky-high, 
but  that  didn't  matter.  They  could  get  a  new 
one. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  the  big  bell  in  the  tower 
156 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


of  the  town-hall  burst  forth  in  a  loud  clangor 
of  swift-repeated  strokes.  It  was  half  a  mile 
away,  but  the  moist  air  brought  the  urgent, 
clamorous  sounds  to  our  ears  as  if  the  belfry 
had  stood  close  above  us.  We  sprang  off  the 
stoop  and  stood  poised,  waiting  to  hear  the 
number  of  the  ward  struck,  and  ready  to  scam 
per  off  on  the  instant  if  the  fire  was  anywhere 
in  our  part  of  the  town.  But  the  excited  peal 
went  on  and  on,  without  a  pause.  It  became 
obvious  that  this  meant  something  besides  a  fire. 
Perhaps  some  of  us  wondered  vaguely  what  that 
something  might  be,  but  as  a  body  our  interest 
had  lapsed.  Billy  Norris,  who  was  the  son  of 
poor  parents,  but  could  whip  even  Tom  Hem 
ingway,  said  he  had  been  told  that  the  German 
boys  on  the  other  side  of  the  gulf  were  coming 
over  to  "rush  "  us  on  the  following  day,  and 
that  we  ought  all  to  collect  nails  to  fire  at  them 
from  our  cannon.  This  we  pledged  ourselves 
to  do — the  bell  keeping  up  its  throbbing  tumult 
ceaselessly. 

Suddenly  we  saw  the  familiar  figure  of  John 
son  running  up  the  street  toward  us.  What  his 
first  name  was  I  never  knew.  To  every  one, 
little  or  big,  he  was  just  Johnson.  He  and  his 
family  had  moved  into  our  town  after  the  War 
began ;  I  fancy  they  moved  away  again  before 

157 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


it  ended.  I  do  not  even  know  what  he  did  for 
a  living.  But  he  seemed  always  drunk,  always 
turbulently  good-natured,  and  always  shouting 
out  the  news  at  the  top  of  his  lungs.  I  cannot 
pretend  to  guess  how  he  found  out  everything 
as  he  did,  or  why,  having  found  it  out,  he 
straightway  rushed  homeward,  scattering  the  in 
telligence  as  he  ran.  Most  probably  Johnson 
was  moulded  by  Nature  for  a  town-crier,  but 
was  born  by  accident  some  generations  after  the 
race  of  bellmen  had  disappeared.  Our  neigh 
borhood  did  not  like  him ;  our  mothers  did 
not  know  Mrs.  Johnson,  and  we  boys  behaved 
with  snobbish  roughness  to  his  children.  He 
seemed  not  to  mind  this  at  all,  but  came  up 
unwearyingly  to  shout  out  the  tidings  of  the 
day  for  our  benefit. 

"  Vicksburg's  fell !  Vicksburg's  fell !  "  was 
what  we  heard  him  yelling  as  he  approached. 

Delos  Ingersoll  and  his  hired  boy  ran  out  of 
the  grocery.  Doors  opened  along  the  street 
and  heads  were  thrust  inquiringly  out. 

"  Vicksburg's  fell  !  "  he  kept  hoarsely  pro 
claiming,  his  arms  waving  in  the  air,  as  he 
staggered  along  at  a  dog- trot  past  us,  and  went 
into  the  saloon  next  to  the  grocery. 

I  cannot  say  how  definite  an  idea  these  tid 
ings  conveyed  to  our  boyish  minds.  I  have  a 
158 


I 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


notion  that  at  the  time  I  assumed  that  Vicks- 
burg  had  something  to  do  with  Gettysburg, 
where  I  knew,  from  the  talk  of  my  elders,  that  an 
awful  fight  had  been  proceeding  since  the  mid 
dle  of  the  week.  Doubtless  this  confusion  was 
aided  by  the  fact  that  an  hour  or  so  later,  on 
that  same  wonderful  day,  the  wire  brought  us 
word  that  this  terrible  battle  on  Pennsylvanian 
soil  had  at  last  taken  the  form  of  a  Union  vic 
tory.  It  is  difficult  now  to  see  how  we  could 
have  known  both  these  things  on  the  Third  of 
July — that  is  to  say,  before  the  people  actually 
concerned  seemed  to  have  been  sure  of  them. 
Perhaps  it  was  only  inspired  guesswork,  but  I 
know  that  my  town  went  wild  over  the  news, 
and  that  the  clouds  overhead  cleared  away  as 
if  by  magic. 

The  sun  did  well  to  spread  that  summer  sky 
at  eventide  with  all  the  pageantry  of  color  the 
spectrum  knows.  It  would  have  been  prepos 
terous  that  such  a  day  should  slink  off  in  dull, 
Quaker  drabs.  Men  were  shouting  in  the 
streets  now.  The  old  cannon  left  over  from 
the  Mexican  war  had  been  dragged  out  on  to 
the  rickety  covered  river-bridge,  and  was 
frightening  the  fishes,  and  shaking  the  dry, 
worm-eaten  rafters,  as  fast  as  the  swab  and  ram 
mer  could  work.  Our  town  bandsmen  were 

159 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


playing  as  they  had  never  played  before,  down 
in  the  square  in  front  of  the  post-office.  The 
management  of  the  Universe  could  not  hurl 
enough  wild  fireworks  into  the  exultant  sunset 
to  fit  our  mood. 

The  very  air  was  filled  with  the  scent  of  tri 
umph — the  spirit  of  conquest.  It  seemed  only 
natural  that  I  should  march  off  to  my  mother 
and  quite  collectedly  tell  her  that  I  desired  to 
stay  out  all  night  with  the  other  boys.  I  had 
never  dreamed  of  daring  to  prefer  such  a  re 
quest  in  other  years.  Now  I  was  scarcely  con 
scious  of  surprise  when  she  gave  her  permission, 
adding  with  a  smile  that  I  would  be  glad 
enough  to  come  in  and  go  to  bed  before  half 
the  night  was  over. 

I  steeled  my  heart  after  supper  with  the 
proud  resolve  that  if  the  night  turned  out  to 
be  as  protracted  as  one  of  those  Lapland  winter 
nights  we  read  about  in  the  geography,  I  still 
would  not  surrender. 

The  boys  outside  were  not  so  excited  over 
the  tidings  of  my  unlooked-for  victory  as  I  had 
expected  them  to  be.  They  received  the  news, 
in  fact,  with  a  rather  mortifying  stoicism.  Tom 
Hemingway,  however,  took  enough  interest  in 
the  affair  to  suggest  that,  instead  of  spending 
my  twenty  cents  in  paltry  fire-crackers,  I  might 
160 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


go  down  town  and  buy  another  can  of  powder 
for  his  cannon.  By  doing  so,  he  pointed  out,  I 
would  be  a  part-proprietor,  as  it  were,  of  the 
night's  performance,  and  would  be  entitled  to 
occasionally  touch  the  cannon  off.  This  gen 
erosity  affected  me,  and  I  hastened  down  the 
long  hill-street  to  show  myself  worthy  of  it,  re 
peating  the  instruction  of  "Kentucky  Bear- 
Han  ter-coarse-grain  "  over  and  over  again  to 
myself  as  I  went. 

Half-way  on  my  journey  I  overtook  a  per 
son  whom,  even  in  the  gathering  twilight,  I 
recognized  as  Miss  Stratford,  the  school 
teacher.  She  also  was  walking  down  the  hill, 
and  rapidly.  It  did  not  need  the  sight  of  a 
letter  in  her  hand  to  tell  me  that  she  was  going 
to  the  post-office.  In  those  cruel  war-days 
everybody  went  to  the  post-office.  I  myself 
went  regularly  to  get  our  mail,  and  to  exchange 
shin-plasters  for  one-cent  stamps  with  which  to 
buy  yeast  and  other  commodities  that  called 
for  minute  fractional  currency. 

Although  I  was  very  fond  of  Miss  Stratford 
— I  still  recall  her  gentle  eyes,  and  pretty, 
rounded,  dark  face,  in  its  frame  of  long,  black 
curls,  with  tender  liking — I  now  coldly  resolved 
to  hurry  past,  pretending  not  to  know  her.  It 
was  a  mean  thing  to  do ;  Miss  Stratford  had 
161 


The  Eve  of  tbe  Fourtb 


always  been  good  to  me,  shining  in  that  respect 
in  brilliant  contrast  to  my  other  teachers,  whom 
I  hated  bitterly.  Still,  the  "Kentucky  Bear- 
Hunter-coarse-grain  "  was  too  important  a  mat 
ter  to  wait  upon  any  mere  female  friendships, 
and  I  quickened  my  pace  into  a  trot,  hoping  to 
scurry  by  unrecognized. 

"  Oh,  Andrew  !  is  that  you  ?  "  I  heard  her  call 
out  as  I  ran  past.  For  the  instant  I  thought  of 
rushing  on,  quite  as  if  I  had  not  heard.  Then 
I  stopped,  and  walked  beside  her. 

"  I  am  going  to  stay  up  all  night  :  mother 
says  I  may;  and  I  am  going  to  fire  off  Tom 
Hemingway's  big  cannon  every  fourth  time, 
straight  through  till  breakfast  time,"  I  an 
nounced  to  her  loftily. 

'  *  Dear  me  !  I  ought  to  be  proud  to  be  seen 
walking  with  such  an  important  citizen,"  she 
answered,  with  kindly  playfulness.  She  added 
more  gravely,  after  a  moment's  pause  :  "  Then 
Tom  is  out,  playing  with  the  other  boys,  is  he  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course  !  "  I  responded.  "  He  al 
ways  lets  us  stand  around  when  he  fires  off  his 
cannon.  He's  got  some  'ringers'  this  year 
too." 

I  heard  Miss  Stratford  murmur  an  impulsive 
"  Thank  God  !  "  under  her  breath. 

Full  as  the  day  had  been  of  surprises,  I  could 
162 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


not  help  wondering  that  the  fact  of  Tom's  ring 
ers  should  stir  up  such  profound  emotions  in 
the  teacher's  breast.  Since  the  subject  so  in 
terested  her,  I  went  on  with  a  long  catalogue 
of  Tom's  other  pyrotechnic  possessions,  and 
from  that  to  an  account  of  his  almost  super 
natural  collection  of  postage-stamps.  In  a  few 
minutes  more  I  am  sure  I  should  have  revealed 
to  her  the  great  secret  of  my  life,  which  was 
my  determination,  in  case  I  came  to  assume  the 
victorious  role  and  rank  of  Napoleon,  to  imme 
diately  make  Tom  a  Marshal  of  the  Empire. 

But  we  had  reached  the  post-office  square. 
I  had  never  before  seen  it  so  full  of  people. 

Even  to  my  boyish  eyes  the  tragic  line  of 
division  which  cleft  this  crowd  in  twain  was 
apparent.  On  one  side,  over  by  the  Seminary, 
the  youngsters  had  lighted  a  bonfire,  and 
were  running  about  it — some  of  the  bolder  ones 
jumping  through  it  in  frolicsome  recklessness. 
Close  by  stood  the  band,  now  valiantly  thump 
ing  out  "  John  Brown's  Body  "  upon  the  noisy 
night  air.  It  was  quite  dark  by  this  time,  but 
the  musicians  knew  the  tune  by  heart.  So  did 
the  throng  about  them,  and  sang  it  with  lusty 
fervor.  The  doors  of  the  saloon  toward  the  cor 
ner  of  the  square  were  flung  wide  open.  Two 
black  streams  of  men  kept  in  motion  under  the 

163 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


radiance  of  the  big  reflector-lamp  over  these 
doors — one  going  in,  one  coming  out.  They 
slapped  one  another  on  the  back  as  they  passed , 
with  exultant  screams  and  shouts.  Every  once 
in  awhile,  when  movement  was  for  the  instant 
blocked,  some  voice  lifted  above  the  others 
would  begin  "  Hip-hip-hip-hip —  '  and  then 
would  come  a  roar  that  fairly  drowned  the 
music. 

On  the  post-office  side  of  the  square  there 
was  no  bonfire.  No  one  raised  a  cheer.  A 
densely  packed  mass  of  men  and  women  stood 
in  front  of  the  big  square  stone  building,  with 
its  closed  doors,  and  curtained  windows  upon 
which,  from  time  to  time,  the  shadow  of 
some  passing  clerk,  bareheaded  and  hurried, 
would  be  momentarily  thrown.  They  waited 
in  silence  for  the  night  mail  to  be  sorted.  If 
they  spoke  to  one  another,  it  was  in  whispers — 
as  if  they  had  been  standing-  with  uncovered 
heads  at  a  funeral  service  in  a  graveyard.  The 
dim  light  reflected  over  from  the  bonfire, 
or  down  from  the  shaded  windows  of  the  post- 
office,  showed  solemn,  hard -lined,  anxious  faces. 
Their  lips  scarcely  moved  when  they  muttered 
little  low-toned  remarks  to  their  neighbors. 
They  spoke  from  the  side  of  the  mouth,  and 
only  on  one  subject. 

164 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


"  He  went  all  through  Fredericksburg  with 
out  a  scratch ' ' 


"  He  looks  so  much  like  me — General  Pal 
mer  told  my  brother  he'd  have  known  his  hide 
in  a  tan-yard ' ' 

"  He's  been  gone — let's  see — it  was  a  year 
some  time  last  April " 

"He  was  counting  on  a  furlough  the  first 
of  this  month.  I  suppose  nobody  got  one  as 
things  turned  out " 

"He  said,  '  No ;  it  ain't  my  style.  I'll 
fight  as  much  as  you  like,  but  I  won't  be 
nigger-waiter  for  no  man,  captain  or  no  cap 
tain' " 

Thus  I  heard  the  scattered  murmurs  among 
the  grown-up  heads  above  me,  as  we  pushed 
into  the  outskirts  of  the  throng,  and  stood 
there,  waiting  with  the  rest.  There  was  no 
sentence  without  a  "he"  in  it.  A  stranger 
might  have  fancied  that  they  were  all  talking  of 
one  man.  I  knew  better.  They  were  the 
fathers  and  mothers,  the  sisters,  brothers,  wives 
of  the  men  whose  regiments  had  been  in  that 
horrible  three  days'  fight  at  Gettysburg.  Each 
was  thinking  and  speaking  of  his  own,  and  took 
it  for  granted  the  others  would  understand. 
For  that  matter,  they  all  did  understand.  The 
town  knew  the  name  and  family  of  every 
165 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


one  of  the  twelve-score  sons  she  had   in  this 
battle. 

It  is  not  very  clear  to  me  now  why  people 
all  went  to  the  post-office  to  wait  for  the  even 
ing  papers  that  came  in  from  the  nearest  big 
city.  Nowadays  they  would  be  brought  in 
bulk  and  sold  on  the  street  before  the  mail- 
bags  had  reached  the  post-office.  Apparently, 
that  had  not  yet  been  thought  of  in  our  slow 
old  town. 

The  band  across  the  square  had  started  up 
afresh  with  "  Annie  Lisle  "  —the  sweet  old  re 
frain  of  "  Wave  willows,  murmur  waters," 
comes  back  to  me  now  after  a  quarter-century 
of  forgetful  ness — when  all  at  once  there  was  a 
sharp  forward  movement  of  the  crowd.  The 
doors  had  been  thrown  open,  and  the  hallway 
was  on  the  instant  filled  with  a  swarming  mul 
titude.  The  band  had  stopped  as  suddenly  as 
it  began,  and  no  more  cheering  was  heard. 
We  could  see  whole  troops  of  dark  forms  scud 
ding  toward  us  from  the  other  side  of  the 
square. 

"  Run  in  for  me — that's  a  good  boy — ask 
for  Dr.  Stratford's  mail,"  the  teacher  whis 
pered,  bending  over  me. 

It  seemed  an  age  before  I  finally  got  back  to 
her,  with  the  paper  in  its  postmarked  wrapper 
1 66 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


buttoned  up  inside  my  jacket.  I  had  never 
been  in  so  fierce  and  determined  a  crowd  be 
fore,  and  I  emerged  from  it  at  last,  confused  in 
wits  and  panting  for  breath.  I  was  still  look 
ing  about  through  the  gloom  in  a  foolish  way 
for  Miss  Stratford,  when  I  felt  her  hand  laid 
sharply  on  my  shoulder. 

"  Well — where  is  it? — did  nothing  come?  " 
she  asked,  her  voice  trembling  with  eagerness, 
and  the  eyes  which  I  had  thought  so  soft  and 
dove-like  flashing  down  upon  me  as  if  she  were 
Miss  Pritchard,  and  I  had  been  caught  chewing 
gum  in  school. 

I  drew  the  paper  out  from  under  my  round 
about,  and  gave  it  to  her.  She  grasped  it,  and 
thrust  a  finger  under  the  cover  to  tear  it  off. 
Then  she  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  looked 
about  her.  "  Come  where  there  is  some 
light,"  she  said,  and  started  up  the  street. 
Although  she  seemed  to  have  spoken  more  to 
herself  than  to  me,  I  followed  her  in  silence, 
close  to  her  side. 

For  a  long  way  the  sidewalk  in  front  of 
every  lighted  store-window  was  thronged  with  a 
group  of  people  clustered  tight  about  some  one 
who  had  a  paper,  and  was  reading  from  it 
aloud.  Beside  broken  snatches  of  this  mono 
logue,  we  caught,  now  groans  of  sorrow  and 

167 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


horror,  now  exclamations  of  proud  approval, 
and  even  the  beginnings  of  cheers,  broken  in 
upon  by  a  general  "  'Sh-h  !  "  as  we  hurried 
past  outside  the  curb. 

It  was  under  a  lamp  in  the  little  park  nearly 
half-way  up  the  hill  that  Miss  Stratford  stopped, 
and  spread  the  paper  open.  I  see  her  still, 
white-faced,  under  the  flickering  gaslight,  her 
black  curls  making  a  strange  dark  bar  between 
the  pale-straw  hat  and  the  white  of  her  shoulder 
shawl  and  muslin  dress,  her  hands  trembling  as 
they  held  up  the  extended  sheet.  She  scanned 
the  columns  swiftly,  skimmingly  for  a  time,  as 
I  could  see  by  the  way  she  moved  her  round 
chin  up  and  down.  Then  she  came  to  a  part 
which  called  for  closer  reading.  The  paper 
shook  perceptibly  now,  as  she  bent  her  eyes 
upon  it.  Then  all  at  once  it  fell  from  her 
hands,  and  without  a  sound  she  walked  away. 

I  picked  the  paper  up,  and  followed  her 
along  the  gravelled  path.  It  was  like  pursuing 
a  ghost,  so  weirdly  white  did  her  summer  at 
tire  now  look  to  my  frightened  eyes,  with  such 
a  swift  and  deathly  silence  did  she  move. 
The  path  upon  which  we  were  described  a 
circle  touching  the  four  sides  of  the  square. 
She  did  not  quit  it  when  the  intersection  with 
our  street  was  reached,  but  followed  straight 
1 68 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


round  again  toward  the  point  where  we  had 
entered  the  park.  This,  too,  in  turn  she 
passed,  gliding  noiselessly  forward  under  the 
black  arches  of  the  overhanging  elms.  The 
suggestion  that  she  did  not  know  she  was  going 
round  and  round  in  a  ring  startled  my  brain. 
I  would  have  run  up  to  her  now  if  I  had 
dared. 

Suddenly  she  turned,  and  saw  that  I  was  be 
hind  her.  She  sank  slowly  into  one  of  the 
garden-seats,  by  the  path,  and  held  out  for  a 
moment  a  hesitating  hand  toward  me.  I  went 
up  at  this  and  looked  into  her  face.  Shadowed 
as  it  was,  the  change  I  saw  there  chilled  my 
blood.  It  was  like  the  face  of  some  one  I  had 
never  seen  before,  with  fixed,  wide-open,  star 
ing  eyes  which  seemed  to  look  beyond  me 
through  the  darkness,  upon  some  terrible  sight 
no  other  could  see. 

"Go — run  and  tell — Tom — to  go  home! 
His  brother — his  brother  has  been  killed,"  she 
said  to  me,  choking  over  the  words  as  if  they 
hurt  her  throat,  and  still  with  the  same  strange 
dry-eyed,  far-away  gaze  covering  yet  not  seeing 
me. 

I  held  out  the  paper  for  her  to  take,  but  she 
made  no  sign,  and  I  gingerly  laid  it  on  the  seat 
beside  her.  I  hung  about  for  a  minute  or  two 
169 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


longer,  imagining  that  she  might  have  some 
thing  else  to  say — but  no  word  came.  Then, 
with  a  feebly  inopportune  "  Well,  good-by," 
I  started  off  alone  up  the  hill. 

It  was  a  distinct  relief  to  find  that  my  com 
panions  were  congregated  at  the  lower  end  of 
the  common,  instead  of  their  accustomed  haunt 
farther  up  near  my  home,  for  the  walk  had  been 
a  lonely  one,  and  I  was  deeply  depressed  by 
what  had  happened.  Tom,  it  seems,  had  been 
called  away  some  quarter  of  an  hour  before. 
All  the  boys  knew  of  the  calamity  which  had 
befallen  the  Hemingways.  We  talked  about  it, 
from  time  to  time,  as  we  loaded  and  fired  the 
cannon  which  Tom  had  obligingly  turned  over 
to  my  friends.  It  had  been  out  of  deference 
to  the  feelings  of  the  stricken  household  that 
they  had  betaken  themselves  and  their  racket 
off  to  the  remote  corner  of  the  common.  The 
solemnity  of  the  occasion  silenced  criticism 
upon  my  conduct  in  forgetting  to  buy  the  pow 
der.  "There  would  be  enough  as  long  as  it 
lasted,"  Billy  Norris  said,  with  philosophic  de 
cision. 

We  speculated  upon  the  likelihood  of  De  Witt 
Hemingway's  being  given  a  military  funeral. 
These  mournful  pageants  had  by  this  time  be 
come  such  familiar  things  to  us  that  the  pros- 
170 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


pect  of  one  more  had  no  element  of  excitement 
in  it,  save  as  it  involved  a  gloomy  sort  of  dis 
tinction  for  Tom.  He  would  ride  in  the  first 
mourning-carriage  with  his  parents,  and  this 
would  associate  us,  as  we  walked  along  ahead 
of  the  band,  with  the  most  intimate  aspects  of 
the  demonstration.  We  regretted  now  that  the 
soldier  company  which  we  had  so  long  projected 
remained  still  unorganized.  Had  it  been  other 
wise  we  would  probably  have  been  awarded  the 
right  of  the  line  in  the  procession.  Some  one 
suggested  that  it  was  not  too  late  —  and  we 
promptly  bound  ourselves  to  meet  after  break 
fast  next  clay  to  organize  and  begin  drilling. 
If  we  worked  at  this  night  and  day,  and  our 
parents  instantaneously  provided  us  with  uni 
forms  and  guns,  we  should  be  in  time.  It  was 
also  arranged  that  we  should  be  called  the 
De  Witt  C.  Hemingway  Fire  Zouaves,  and  that 
Billy  Norris  should  be  side  captain.  The  chief 
command  would,  of  course,  be  reserved  for 
Tom.  We  would  specially  salute  him  as  he 
rode  past  in  the  closed  carriage,  and  then  fall  in 
behind,  forming  his  honorary  escort. 

None    of    us   had    known    the    dead    officer 

closely,  owing  to  his  advanced  age.     He  was 

seven  or  eight  years  older  than  even  Tom.     But 

the  more  elderly  among  our  group  had  seen  him 

171 


The  Eve  of  tbe  Fourth 


play  base -ball  in  the  academy  nine,  and  our 
neighborhood  was  still  alive  with  legends  of 
his  early  audacity  and  skill  in  collecting  barrels 
and  dry -goods  boxes  at  night  for  election  bon 
fires.  It  was  remembered  that  once  he  carried 
away  a  whole  front-stoop  from  the  house  of  a 
little  German  tailor  on  one  of  the  back  streets. 
As  we  stood  around  the  heated  cannon,  in  the 
great  black  solitude  of  the  common,  our  fancies 
pictured  this  redoubtable  young  man  once  more 
among  us — not  in  his  blue  uniform,  with  crim 
son  sash  and  sword  laid  by  his  side,  and  the 
gauntlets  drawn  over  his  lifeless  hands,  but  as  a 
taller  and  glorified  Tom,  in  a  roundabout  jacket 
and  copper-toed  boots,  giving  the  law  on  this 
his  play  ground.  The  very  cannon  at  our  feet 
had  once  been  his.  The  night  air  became  peo 
pled  with  ghosts  of  his  contemporaries — hand 
some  boys  who  had  grown  up  before  us,  and 
had  gone  away  to  lay  down  their  lives  in  far-off 
Virginia  or  Tennessee. 

These  heroic  shades  brought  drowsiness  in 
their  train.  We  lapsed  into  long  silences, 
punctuated  by  yawns,  when  it  was  not  our  turn 
to  ram  and  touch  off  the  cannon.  Finally  some 
of  us  stretched  ourselves  out  on  the  grass,  in  the 
warm  darkness,  to  wait  comfortably  for  this 
turn  to  come. 

172 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


What  did  come  instead  was  daybreak — find 
ing  Billy  Norris  and  myself  alone  constant  to 
our  all-night  vow.  We  sat  up  and  shivered  as 
we  rubbed  our  eyes.  The  morning  air  had 
a  chilling  freshness  that  went  to  my  bones — 
and  these,  moreover,  were  filled  with  those 
novel  aches  and  stiffnesses  which  beds  were 
invented  to  prevent.  We  stood  up,  stretching 
out  our  arms,  and  gaping  at  the  pearl-and-rose 
beginnings  of  the  sunrise  in  the  eastern  sky. 
The  other  boys  had  all  gone  home,  and  taken 
the  cannon  with  them.  Only  scraps  of  torn 
paper  and  tiny  patches  of  burnt  grass  marked 
the  site  of  our  celebration. 

My  first  weak  impulse  was  to  march  home 
without  delay,  and  get  into  bed  as  quickly  as 
might  be.  But  Billy  Norris  looked  so  finely 
resolute  and  resourceful  that  I  hesitated  to  sug 
gest  this,  and  said  nothing,  leaving  the  initia 
tive  to  him.  One  could  see,  by  the  most  casual 
glance,  that  he  was  superior  to  mere  considera 
tions  of  unseasonableness  in  hours.  I  remem 
bered  now  that  he  was  one  of  that  remarkable 
body  of  boys,  the  paper-carriers,  who  rose  when 
all  others  were  asleep  in  their  warm  nests,  and 
trudged  about  long  before  breakfast  distributing 
the  Clarion  among  the  well-to-do  households. 
This  fact  had  given  him  his  position  in  our 

173 


The  Ere  of  the  Fourth 


neighborhood  as  quite  the  next  in  leadership 
to  Tom  Hemingway. 

He  presently  outlined  his  plans  to  me,  after 
having  tried  the  centre  of  light  on  the  horizon, 
where  soon  the  sun  would  be,  by  an  old  brass 
compass  he  had  in  his  pocket — a  process  which 
enabled  him,  he  said,  to  tell  pretty  well  what 
time  it  was.  The  paper  wouldn't  be  out  for 
nearly  two  hours  yet — and  if  it  were  not  for  the 
fact  of  a  great  battle,  there  would  have  been  no 
paper  at  all  on  this  glorious  anniversary — but 
he  thought  we  would  go  down-town  and  see 
what  was  going  on  around  about  the  newspaper 
office.  Forthwith  we  started.  He  cheered  my 
faint  spirits  by  assuring  me  that  I  would  soon 
cease  to  be  sleepy,  and  would,  in  fact,  feel  bet 
ter  than  usual.  I  dragged  my  feet  along  at  his 
side,  waiting  for  this  revival  to  come,  and 
meantime  furtively  yawning  against  my  sleeve. 

Billy  seemed  to  have  dreamed  a  good  deal, 
during  our  nap  on  the  common,  about  the  De 
Witt  C.  Hemingway  Fire  Zouaves.  At  least  he 
had  now  in  his  head  a  marvellously  elaborated 
system  of  organization,  which  he  unfolded  as  we 
went  along.  I  felt  that  I  had  never  before  real 
ized  his  greatness,  his  born  genius  for  command. 
His  scheme  halted  nowhere.  He  allotted  offices 
with  discriminating  firmness;  he  treated  the 

174 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


question  of  uniforms  and  guns  as  a  trivial  detail 
which  would  settle  itself;  he  spoke  with  calm 
confidence  of  our  offering  our  services  to  the 
Republic  in  the  autumn  ;  his  clear  vision  was 
even  the  materials  for  a  fife-and-drum  corps 
among  the  German  boys  in  the  back  streets.  It 
was  true  that  I  appeared  personally  to  play  a 
meagre  part  in  these  great  projects ;  the  most 
that  was  said  about  me  was  that  I  might  make  a 
fair  third-corporal.  But  Fate  had  thrown  in  my 
way  such  a  wonderful  chance  of  becoming  inti 
mate  with  Billy  that  I  made  sure  I  should  swiftly 
advance  in  rank — the  more  so  as  I  discerned  in 
the  background  of  his  thoughts,  as  it  were,  a 
grim  determination  to  make  short  work  of  Tom 
Hemingway's  aristocratic  pretensions,  once  the 
funeral  was  over. 

We  were  forced  to  make  a  detour  of  the  park 
on  our  way  down,  because  Billy  observed  some 
half-dozen  Irish  boys  at  play  with  a  cannon  in 
side,  whom  he  knew  to  be  hostile.  If  there  had 
been  only  four,  he  said,  he  would  have  gone  in 
and  routed  them.  He  could  whip  any  two  of 
them,  he  added,  with  one  hand  tied  behind  his 
back.  I  listened  with  admiration.  Billy  was 
not  tall,  but  he  possessed  great  thickness  of  chest 
and  length  of  arm.  His  skin  was  so  dark  that 
we  canvassed  the  theory  from  time  to  time  of  his 


The  Eve  of  tbe  Fourth 


having  Indian  blood.  He  did  not  discourage 
this,  and  he  admitted  himself  that  he  was  double- 
jointed. 

The  streets  of  the  business  part  of  the  town, 
into  which  we  now  made  our  way,  were  quite 
deserted.  We  went  around  into  the  yard  behind 
the  printing-office,  where  the  carrier-boys  were 
wont  to  wait  for  the  press  to  get  to  work  ;  and 
Billy  displayed  some  impatience  at  discovering 
that  here  too  there  was  no  one.  It  was  now 
broad  daylight,  but  through  the  windows  of  the 
composing-room  we  could  see  some  of  the  print 
ers  still  setting  type  by  kerosene  lamps. 

We  seated  ourselves  at  the  end  of  the  yard  on 
a  big,  flat,  smooth-faced  stone,  and  Billy  pro 
duced  from  his  pocket  a  number  of"  em  "  quads, 
so  he  called  them,  and  with  which  the  carriers 
had  learned  from  the  printers'  boys  to  play  a 
very  beautiful  game.  You  shook  the  pieces  of 
metal  in  your  hands  and  threw  them  on  the 
stone  ;  your  score  depended  upon  the  number  of 
nicked  sides  that  were  turned  uppermost.  We 
played  this  game  in  the  interest  of  good-fellow 
ship  for  a  little.  Then  Billy  told  me  that  the 
carriers  always  played  it  for  pennies,  and  that  it 
was  unmanly  for  us  to  do  otherwise.  He  had  no 
pennies  at  that  precise  moment,  but  would  pay 
at  the  end  of  the  week  what  he  had  lost ;  in  the 
176 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


meantime  there  was  my  twenty  cents  to  go  on 
with.  After  this  Billy  threw  so  many  nicks 
uppermost  that  my  courage  gave  way,  and  I 
made  an  attempt  to  stop  the  game ;  but  a  single 
remark  from  him  as  to  the  military  destiny 
which  he  was  reserving  for  me,  if  I  only  displayed 
true  soldierly  nerve  and  grit,  sufficed  to  quiet  me 
once  more,  and  the  play  went  on.  I  had  now 
only  five  cents  left. 

Suddenly  a  shadow  interposed  itself  between 
the  sunlight  and  the  stone.  I  looked  up,  to  be 
hold  a  small  boy  with  bare  arms  and  a  blackened 
apron  standing  over  me,  watching  our  game. 
There  was  a  great  deal  of  ink  on  his  face  and 
hands,  and  a  hardened,  not  to  say  rakish  ex 
pression  in  his  eye. 

"Why  don't  you  <  jeff '  with  somebody  of 
your  own  size  ?  "  he  demanded  of  Billy,  after 
having  looked  me  over  critically. 

He  was  not  nearly  so  big  as  Billy,  and  I  ex 
pected  to  see  the  latter  instantly  rise  and  crush 
him,  but  Billy  only  laughed  and  said  we  were 
playing  for  fun  ;  he  was  going  to  give  me  all  my 
money  back.  I  was  rejoiced  to  hear  this,  but 
still  felt  surprised  at  the  propitiatory  manner 
Billy  adopted  toward  this  diminutive  inky  boy. 
It  was  not  the  demeanor  befitting  aside-captain 
— and  what  made  it  worse  was  that  the  strange 
177 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourtb 


boy  loftily  declined  to  be  cajoled  by  it.  He 
sniffed  when  Billy  told  him  about  the  military 
company  we  were  forming  ;  he  coldly  shook  his 
head,  with  a  curt  "  Nixie  !  "  when  invited  to 
join  it;  and  he  laughed  aloud  at  hearing  the 
name  our  organization  was  to  bear. 

"  He  ain't  dead  at  all — that  De  Witt  Hem 
ingway,"  he  said,  with  jeering  contempt. 

"  Hain't  he  though!"  exclaimed  Billy. 
"  The  news  come  last  night.  Tom  had  to  go 
home — his  mother  sent  for  him — on  account  of 
it!  " 

"I'll  bet  you  a  quarter  he  ain't  dead,"  re 
sponded  the  practical  inky  boy.  "  Money  up, 
though  !  " 

"I've  only  got  fifteen  cents.  I'll  bet  you 
that,  though,"  rejoined  Billy,  producing  my 
torn  and  dishevelled  shinplasters. 

"All  right!  Wait  here!"  said  the  boy, 
running  off  to  the  building  and  disappearing 
through  the  door.  There  was  barely  time  for  me 
to  learn  from  my  companion  that  this  printer's 
apprentice  was  called  "  the  devil,"  and  could 
not  only  whistle  between  his  teeth  and  crack 
his  fingers,  but  chew  tobacco,  when  he  reap 
peared,  with  a  long  narrow  strip  of  paper  in  his 
hand.  This  he  held  out  for  us  to  see,  indicat 
ing  with  an  ebon  forefinger  the  special  para- 
178 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


graph  we  were  to  read.  Billy  looked  at  it 
sharply,  for  several  moments,  in  silence.  Then 
he  said  to  me:  "What  does  it  say  there? 
I  must'  a'  got  some  powder  in  my  eyes  last 
ni^ht." 

I  read  this  paragraph  aloud,  not  without  an 
unworthy  feeling  that  the  inky  boy  would  now 
respect  me  deeply : 

II  CORRECTION.      Lieutenant    De    Witt   C. 
Hemingway,  of  Company  A,  — th  New  York, 
reported  in  earlier  despatches  among  the  killed, 
is  uninjured.     The  officer  killed  is  Lieutenant 
Carl  Heinninge,  Company  F,  same  regiment." 

Billy's  face  visibly  lengthened  as  I  read  this 
out,  and  he  felt  us  both  looking  at  him.  He 
made  a  pretence  of  examining  the  slip  of  paper 
again,  but  in  a  half-hearted  way.  Then  he 
ruefully  handed  over  the  fifteen  cents  and, 
rising  from  the  stone,  shook  himself. 

"Them  Dutchmen  never  was  no  good!" 
was  what  he  said. 

The  inky  boy  had  put  the  money  in  the 
pocket  under  his  apron,  and  grinned  now  with 
as  much  enjoyment  as  dignity  would  permit 
him  to  show.  He  did  not  seem  to  mind  any 
longer  the  original  source  of  his  winnings,  and 
179 


The  Eve  of  tbe  Fourth 


it  was  apparent  that  I  could  not  with  decency 
recall  it  to  him.  Some  odd  impulse  prompted 
me,  however,  to  ask  him  if  I  might  have  the 
paper  he  had  in  his  hand.  He  was  magnani 
mous  enough  to  present  me  with  the  proof-sheet 
on  the  spot.  Then  with  another  grin  he  turned 
and  left  us. 

Billy  stood  sullenly  kicking  with  his  bare 
toes  into  a  sand-heap  by  the  stone.  He  would 
not  answer  me  when  I  spoke  to  him.  It  flashed 
across  my  perceptive  faculties  that  he  was  not 
such  a  great  man,  after  all,  as  I  had  imagined. 
In  another  instant  or  two  it  had  become  quite 
clear  to  me  that  I  had  no  admiration  for  him 
whatever.  Without  a  word,  I  turned  on  my 
heel  and  walked  determinedly  out  of  the  yard 
and  into  the  street,  homeward  bent. 

All  at  once  I  quickened  my  pace ;  something 
had  occurred  to  me.  The  purpose  thus  con 
ceived  grew  so  swiftly  that  soon  I  found  myself 
running.  Up  the  hill  I  sped,  and  straight 
through  the  park.  If  the  Irish  boys  shouted 
after  me  I  knew  it  not,  but  dashed  on  heedless 
of  all  else  save  the  one  idea.  I  only  halted, 
breathless  and  panting,  when  I  stood  on  Dr. 
Stratford's  doorstep,  and  heard  the  night-bell 
inside  jangling  shrilly  in  response  to  my  excited 
pull. 

1 80 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


As  I  waited,  I  pictured  to  myself  the  old 
doctor  as  he  would  presently  come  down,  half- 
dressed  and  pulling  on  his  coat  as  he  advanced. 
He  would  ask,  eagerly,  "  Who  is  sick?  Where 
am  I  to  go  ?  "  and  I  would  calmly  reply  that  he 
unduly  alarmed  himself,  and  that  I  had  a  mes 
sage  for  his  daughter.  He  would,  of  course, 
ask  me  what  it  was,  and  I,  politely  but  firmly, 
would  decline  to  explain  to  any  one  but  the 
lady  in  person.  Just  what  might  ensue  was  not 
clear — but  I  beheld  myself  throughout  com 
manding  the  situation,  at  once  benevolent, 
polished,  and  inexorable. 

The  door  opened  with  unlooked-for  prompt 
ness,  while  my  self-complacent  vision  still  hung 
in  mid-air.  Instead  of  the  bald  and  spectacled 
old  doctor,  there  confronted  me  a  white -faced, 
solemn-eyed  lady  in  a  black  dress,  whom  I  did 
not  seem  to  know.  I  stared  at  her,  tongue- 
tied,  till  she  said,  in  a  low,  grave  voice, 
"  Well,  Andrew,  what  is  it?  " 

Then  of  course  I  saw  that  it  was  Miss  Strat 
ford,  my  teacher,  the  person  whom  I  had  come 
to  see.  Some  vague  sense  of  what  the  sleepless 
night  had  meant  in  this  house  came  to  me  as  I 
gazed  confusedly  at  her  mourning,  and  heard 
the  echo  of  her  sad  tones  in  my  ears. 

"  Is  some  one  ill?  "  she  asked  again. 
181 


The  Ere  of  tbe  Fourth 


11  No  ;  some  one — some  one  is  very  well !  " 
I  managed  to  reply,  lifting  my  eyes  again  to 
her  wan  face.  The  spectacle  of  its  drawn  lines 
and  pallor  all  at  once  assailed  my  wearied  and 
overtaxed  nerves  with  crushing  weight.  I  felt 
myself  beginning  to  whimper,  and  rushing  tears 
scalded  my  eyes.  Something  inside  my  breast 
seemed  to  be  dragging  me  down  through  the 
stoop. 

I  have  now  only  the  recollection  of  Miss 
Stratford's  kneeling  by  my  side,  with  a  sup 
porting  arm  around  me,  and  of  her  thus  unroll 
ing  and  reading  the  proof-paper  I  had  in  my 
hand.  We  were  in  the  hall  now,  instead  of  on 
the  stoop,  and  there  was  a  long  silence.  Then 
she  put  her  head  on  my  shoulder  and  wept.  I 
could  hear  and  feel  her  sobs  as  if  they  were  my 
own. 

"  I — I  didn't  think  you'd  cry — that  you'd 
be  so  sorry,"  I  heard  myself  saying,  at  last,  in 
despondent  self-defence. 

Miss  Stratford  lifted  her  head  and,  still 
kneeling  as  she  was,  put  a  finger  under  my  chin 
to  make  me  look  her  in  her  face.  Lo  !  the 
eyes  were  laughing  through  their  tears ;  the 
whole  countenance  was  radiant  once  more  with 
the  light  of  happy  youth  and  with  that  other 
glory  which  youth  knows  only  once. 
182 


The  Eve  of  the  Fourth 


"Why,  Andrew,  boy,"  she  said,  trembling, 
smiling,  sobbing,  beaming  all  at  once,  "  didn't 
you  know  that  people  cry  for  very  joy  some 
times  ?  ' ' 

And  as  I  shook  my  head  she  bent  down  and 
kissed  me. 


183 


My  Aunt  Susan 


MY   AUNT   SUSAN 

I  HELD  the  lamp,  while  Aunt  Susan  cut  up 
the  pig. 

The  whole  day  had  been  devoted,  I  remem 
ber,  to  preparations  for  this  great  event.  Early 
in  the  morning  I  had  been  to  the  butcher's  to 
set  in  train  the  annual  negotiations  for  a  loan 
of  cleaver  and  meat-saw  ;  and  hours  afterward 
had  borne  these  implements  proudly  homeward 
through  the  village  street.  In  the  interval  I 
had  turned  the  grindstone,  over  at  the  Four 
Corners,  while  the  grocer's  hired  man  oblig 
ingly  sharpened  our  carving-knife.  Then  there 
had  been  the  even  more  back-aching  task  of 
clearing  away  the  hard  snow  from  the  accus 
tomed  site  of  our  wood-pile  in  the  yard,  and 
scraping  together  a  frosted  heap  of  chips  and 
bark  for  the  smudge  in  the  smoke-barrel. 

From  time  to  time  I  sweetened  this  toil,  and 
helped  the  laggard  hours  to  a  swifter  pace,  by 
paying  visits  to  the  wood -shed  to  have  still 
another  look  at  the  pig.  He  was  frozen  very 
stiff,  and  there  were  small  icicles  in  the  crevices 
187 


My  Aunt  Susan 


whence  his  eyes  had  altogether  disappeared. 
My  emotions  as  I  viewed  his  big,  cold,  pink 
carcass,  with  its  extended  legs,  its  bland  and 
pasty  countenance,  and  that  awful  emptiness 
underneath,  were  much  mixed.  Although  I 
was  his  elder  by  seven  or  eight  years,  we  had 
been  close  friends  during  all  his  life — or  all  ex 
cept  a  very  few  weeks  of  his  earliest  sucking 
pighood,  spent  on  his  native  farm.  I  had  fed 
him  daily  ;  I  had  watched  him  grow  week  by 
week  ;  more  than  once  I  had  poked  him  with 
a  stick  as  he  ran  around  in  his  sty,  to  make 
him  squeal  for  the  edification  of  neighbors' 
boys  who  had  come  into  our  yard,  and  would 
now  be  sharply  ordered  out  again  by  Aunt 
Susan. 

As  these  kindly  memories  surged  over  me  I 
could  not  but  feel  like  a  traitor  to  my  old  com 
panion,  as  he  lay  thus  hairless  and  pallid  before 
my  eyes.  But  then  I  would  remember  how 
good  he  was  going  to  be  to  eat — and  straight 
way  return  with  a  light  heart  to  the  work  of 
kicking  up  more  chips  from  the  ice. 

From  the  living-room  in  the  rear  of  our  little 
house  came  the  monotonous  incessant  clatter  of 
Aunt  Susan's  carpet  loom.  Through  the  win 
dow  I  could  see  the  outlines  of  her  figure  and 
the  back  of  her  head  as  she  sat  on  her  high 
1 88 


My  Aunt  Susan 


bench.  It  was  to  me  the  most  familiar  of  all 
spectacles,  this  tireless  woman  bending  reso 
lutely  over  her  work.  She  was  there  when  I 
first  cautiously  ventured  my  nose  out  from  un 
der  the  warm  blanket  of  a  winter's  morning. 
Very,  very  often  I  fell  asleep  at  night  in  my 
bed  in  the  recess,  lulled  off  by  the  murmur  of 
the  diligent  loom. 

Presently  I  went  in  to  warm  myself,  and 
stood  with  my  red  fingers  over  the  stove  top. 
She  cast  but  one  vague  glance  at  me,  through 
the  open  frame  of  the  loom  between  us,  and 
went  on  with  her  work.  It  was  not  our  habit 
to  talk  much  in  that  house.  She  was  too  busy 
a  woman,  for  one  thing,  to  have  much  time  for 
conversation.  The  impression  that  she  pre 
ferred  not  to  talk  was  always  present  in  my 
boyish  mind.  I  call  up  the  picture  of  her  still 
as  I  saw  her  then  under  the  top  bar  of  the  cum 
brous  old  machine,  sitting  with  lips  tight  to 
gether,  and  resolute,  masterful  eyes  bent  upon 
the  twining  intricacy  of  warp  and  woof  before 
her.  At  her  side  were  piled  a  dozen  or  more 
big  balls  of  carpet  rags,  which  the  village  wives 
and  daughters  cut  up,  sewed  together  and 
wound  in  the  long  winter  evenings,  while 
the  men-folks  sat  with  their  stockinged  feet 
on  the  stove  hearth,  and  read  out  the  lat- 
189 


My  Aunt  Susan 


est  ''news  from  the  front"  in  their   Weekly 
Tribune. 

I  knew  all  these  rag  balls  by  the  names  of 
their  owners.  Not  only  did  I  often  go  to  their 
houses  for  them,  upon  the  strength  of  the  gen 
eral  village  rumor  that  they  were  ready,  and  al 
ways  carry  back  the  finished  lengths  of  carpet ; 
but  I  had  long  since  unconsciously  grown  to 
watch  all  the  varying  garments  and  shifts  of 
fashion  in  the  raiment  of  our  neighbors,  with 
an  eye  single  to  the  likelihood  of  their  eventu 
ally  turning  up  at  Aunt  Susan's  loom.  When 
Hiram  Mabie's  checkered  butternut  coat  was 
cut  down  for  his  son  Roswell,  I  noted  the  fact 
merely  as  a  stage  of  its  progress  toward  carpet 
rags.  If  Mrs.  Wilkins  concluded  to  turn  her 
flowered  delaine  dress  a  third  year,  or  Sarah 
Northrup  had  her  bright  saffron  shawl  dyed 
black,  I  was  sensible  of  a  wrong  having  been 
done  our  little  household.  I  felt  like  crossing 
the  street  whenever  I  saw  approaching  the 
portly  figure  of  Cyrus  Husted's  mother,  the 
woman  who  dragged  everybody  into  her  house 
to  show  them  the  ingrain  carpet  she  had  bought 
at  Tecumseh,  and  assured  them  that  it  was 
much  cheaper  in  the  long  run  than  the  products 
of  my  Aunt's  industry.  I  tingled  with  indigna 
tion  as  she  passed  me  on  the  sidewalk,  puffing 
190 


My  Aunt  Susan 


for  breath  and  stepping  mincingly  because  her 
shoes  were  too  tight  for  her. 

Nearly  all  the  knowledge  of  our  neighbors' 
sayings  and  doings  which  reached  Aunt  Susan 
came  to  her  from  me.  She  kept  herself  to  her 
self  with  a  vengeance,  toiling  early  and  late, 
rarely  going  beyond  the  confines  of  her  yard 
save  on  Sunday  mornings,  when  we  went  to 
church,  and  treating  with  frosty  curtness  the 
few  people  who  ventured  to  come  to  our  house 
on  business  or  from  social  curiosity.  For  one 
thing,  this  Juno  Mills  in  which  we  lived  wras 
not  really  our  home.  We  had  only  been  there 
for  four  or  five  years — a  space  which  indeed 
spanned  all  my  recollections  of  life — but  left 
my  Aunt  more  or  less  a  stranger  and  new-comer. 
She  spared  no  pains  to  maintain  that  condition. 
I  can  see  now  that  there  were  good  reasons  for 
this  stern  aloofness.  At  the  time  I  thought  it 
was  altogether  due  to  the  proud  and  unsociable 
nature  of  my  Aunt. 

In  my  child's  mind  I  regarded  her  as  dis 
tinctly  an  elderly  person.  People  outside,  I 
know,  spoke  of  her  as  an  old  maid,  sometimes 
winking  furtively  over  my  head  as  they  did  so. 
But  she  was  not  really  old  at  all — was  in  truth 
just  barely  in  the  thirties.  Doubtless  the  fact 
that  she  was  tall  and  dark,  with  very  black 

191 


My  Aunt  Susan 


hair,  and  that  years  of  steady  concentration  of 
sight,  upon  the  strings  and  threads  of  the  loom, 
had  scored  a  scowling  vertical  wrinkle  between 
her  near-sighted  eyes  gave  me  my  notion  of 
her  advanced  maturity.  And  in  all  her  ways 
and  words,  too,  she  was  so  far  removed  from 
any  idea  of  youthful  softness  !  I  could  not  re 
member  her  having  ever  kissed  me.  My  imag 
ination  never  evolved  the  conceit  of  her  kiss 
ing  anybody.  I  had  always  had  at  her  hands 
uniformly  good  treatment,  good  food,  good 
clothes  ;  after  I  had  learned  my  letters  from 
the  old  maroon  plush  label  on  the  Babbitt's 
soap  box  which  held  the  wood  behind  the 
stove,  and  expanded  this  knowledge  by  a  study 
of  street  signs,  she  had  herself  taught  me  how 
to  read,  and  later  provided  me  with  books  for 
the  village  school.  She  was  my  only  known 
relative — the  only  person  in  the  world  who  had 
ever  done  anything  for  me.  Yet  it  could  not 
be  said  that  I  loved  her.  Indeed  she  no  more 
raised  the  suggestion  of  tenderness  in  my  mind 
than  did  the  loom  at  which  she  spent  her  wak 
ing  hours. 

"The  Perkinses  asked  me  why  you  didn't 
get  the  butcher  to  cut  up  the  pig,"  I  remarked 
at  last,  rubbing  my  hands  together  over  the 
hot  stove  griddles. 

192 


My  Aunt  Susan 


"  It's  none  of  their  business  !  "  said  Aunt 
Susan,  with  laconic  promptness. 

"  And  Devillo  Pollard's  got  anew  overcoat," 
I  added.  "  He  hasn't  worn  the  old  army  one 
now  for  upward  of  a  week." 

"If  this  war  goes  on  much  longer,"  com 
mented  my  Aunt,  "  every  carpet  in  Dearborn 
County  '11  be  as  blue  as  a  whetstone." 

I  think  that  must  have  been  the  entire  con 
versation  of  the  afternoon.  I  especially  recall 
the  remark  about  the  overcoat.  For  two  years 
now  the  balls  of  rags  had  contained  an  increas 
ing  proportion  of  pale  blue  woollen  strips,  as 
the  men  of  the  country  round  about  came  home 
from  the  South,  or  bought  cheap  garments  from 
the  second-hand  dealers  in  Tecumseh.  All 
other  colors  had  died  out.  There  was  only 
this  light  blue,  and  the  black  of  bombazine  or 
worsted  mourning  into  which  the  news  in  each 
week's  papers  forced  one  or  another  of  the 
neighboring  families.  To  obviate  this  mo 
notony,  some  of  the  women  dyed  their  white 
rags  with  butternut  or  even  cochineal,  but  this 
was  a  mere  drop  in  the  bucket,  so  to  speak. 
The  loom  spun  out  only  long,  depressing  rolls 
of  black  and  blue. 

My  memory  leaps  lightly  forward  now  to 
the  early  evening,  when  I  held  the  lamp  in 

193 


My  Aunt  Susan 


the    woodshed,   and   Aunt    Susan    cut    up    the 

Pig- 
How  joyfully  I  watched  her  every  operation  ! 
Every  now  and  again  my  interest  grew  so 
beyond  proper  bounds  that  I  held  the  lamp 
sidewise,  and  the  flame  smoked  the  chimney.  I 
was  in  mortal  terror  over  this  lamp,  even  when 
it  was  standing  on  the  table  quite  by  itself. 
We  often  read  in  the  paper  of  explosions  from 
this  new  kerosene  by  which  people  were 
instantly  killed  and  houses  wrapped  in  an  un 
quenchable  fire.  Aunt  Susan  had  stood  out 
against  the  strange  invention,  long  after  most 
of  the  other  homes  of  Juno  Mills  were  familiar 
with  the  idea  of  the  lamp.  Even  after  she  had 
yielded,  and  I  went  to  the  grocery  for  more  oil 
and  fresh  chimneys  and  wicks,  like  other  boys, 
she  refused  to  believe  that  this  inflammable  fluid 
was  really  squeezed  out  of  hard  coal,  as  they 
said.  And  for  years  we  lived  in  momentary  be 
lief  that  our  lamp  was  about  to  explode. 

My  fears  of  sudden  death  could  not,  however, 
for  a  moment  stand  up  against  the  delight 
ed  excitement  with  which 'I  viewed  the  dis 
memberment  of  the  pig.  It  was  very  cold  in 
the  shed,  but  neither  of  us  noticed  that.  My 
Aunt  attacked  the  job  with  skilful  resolution 
and  energy,  as  was  her  way,  chopping  small 
194 


My  Aunt  Susan 


bones,  sawing  vehemently  through  big  ones, 
hacking  and  slicing  with  the  knife,  like  a 
strong  man  in  a  hurry. 

For  a  long  time  no  word  was  spoken.  I 
gazed  in  silence  as  the  head  was  detached,  and 
then  resolved  itself  slowly  into  souse — always 
tacitly  set  aside  as  my  special  portion.  In 
prophecy  I  saw  the  big  pan,  filled  with  ears, 
cheeks,  snout,  feet,  and  tail,  all  boiled  and 
allowed  to  grow  cold  in  their  own  jelly — that 
pan  to  which  I  was  free  to  repair  any  time  of  day 
until  everything  was  gone.  I  thought  of  my 
self,  too,  with  apron  tied  round  my  neck  and 
the  chopping-bowl  on  my  knees,  reducing  what 
remained  of  the  head  into  small  bits,  to  be 
seasoned  by  my  Aunt,  and  then  fill  other  pans 
as  head-cheese.  The  sage  and  summer  savory 
hung  in  paper  flour-bags  from  the  rafters  over 
head.  I  looked  up  at  them  with  rapture.  It 
seemed  as  if  my  mouth  already  tasted  them  in 
head-cheese  and  sausage  and  in  the  hot  gravy 
which  basted  the  succulent  spare-rib.  Only  the 
abiding  menace  of  the  lamp  kept  me  from  dan 
cing  with  delight. 

Gradually,  however,  as  my  Aunt  passed  from 
the  tid-bits  to  the  more  substantial  portions  of 
her  task,  getting  out  the  shoulders,  the  hams 
for  smoking,  the  pieces  for  salting  down  in  the 

195 


My  Aunt  Susan 


brine-barrel,  my  enthusiasm  languished  a  trifle. 
The  lamp  grew  heavy  as  I  changed  it  from 
hand  to  hand,  holding  the  free  fingers  at  a  re 
spectful  distance  over  the  chimney  -  top  for 
warmth,  and  shuffling  my  feet  about.  It  was 
truly  very  cold.  I  strove  to  divert  myself  by 
smiling  at  the  big  shadow  my  bustling  Aunt 
cast  against  the  house  side  of  the  shed,  and  by 
moving  the  lamp  to  affect  its  proportions,  but 
broke  out  into  yawns  instead.  A  mouse  ran 
swiftly  across  the  scantling  just  under  the 
lean-to  roof.  At  the  same  time  I  thought  I 
caught  the  muffled  sound  of  distant  rapping,  as 
if  at  our  own  rarely  used  front  door.  I  was 
too  sleepy  to  decide  whether  I  had  really  heard 
a  noise  or  not. 

All  at  once  I  roused  myself  with  a  start. 
The  lamp  had  nearly  slipped  from  my  hands, 
and  the  horror  of  what  might  have  happened 
frightened  me  into  wakefulness. 

11  The  Perkins  girls  keep  on  calling  me  '  Wise 
child.'  They  yell  it  after  me  all  the  while," 
I  said,  desperately  clutching  at  a  subject  which 
I  hoped  would  interest  my  Aunt.  I  had  spok 
en  to  her  about  it  a  week  or  so  before,  and  it 
had  stirred  her  quite  out  of  her  wonted  stern 
calm.  If  anything  would  induce  her  to  talk 
now,  it  would  be  this. 

196 


My  Aunt  Susan 


"They  do,  eh?"  she  said,  with  an  alert 
sharpness  of  voice,  which  dwindled  away  into 
a  sigh.  Then,  after  a  moment,  she  added, 
"Well,  never  you  mind.  You  just  keep  right 
on,  tending  to  your  own  affairs,  and  studying 
your  lessons,  and  in  time  it'll  be  you  who  can 
laugh  at  them  and  all  their  low-down  lot. 
They  only  do  it  to  make  you  feel  bad.  Just 
don't  you  humor  them." 

"But  I  don't  see,"  I  went  on,  "  why— 
what  do  they  call  me  '  wise  child  '  for  ?  I 
asked  Hi  Budd,  up  at  the  Corners,  but  he  only 
just  chuckled  and  chuckled  to  himself,  and 
wouldn't  say  a  word." 

My  Aunt  suspended  work  for  the  moment, 
and  looked  severely  down  upon  me.  "  Well ! 
Ira  Clarence  Blodgett  !  v  she  said,  with  grim 
emphasis,  "  I  am  ashamed  of  you  !  I  thought 
you  had  more  pride  !  The  idea  of  talking 
about  things  like  that  with  a  coarse,  rough, 
hired  man — in  a  barn  !  ' ' 

To  hear  my  full  name  thus  pronounced,  syl 
lable  by  syllable,  sent  me  fairly  weltering,  as  it 
were,  under  Aunt  Susan's  utmost  condemnation. 
It  was  the  punishment  reserved  for  my  gravest 
crimes.  I  hung  my  head,  and  felt  the  lamp 
wagging  nervelessly  in  my  hands.  I  could  not 
deny  even  her  speculative  impeachment  as  to 
197 


My  Aunt  Susan 


the  barn  ;  it  was  blankly  apparent  in  my  mind 
that  the  fact  of  the  barn  made  matters  much 
worse. 

"I  was  helping  him  wash  their  two-seated 
sleigh,"  I  submitted,  weakly.  "He  asked  me 
to." 

"What  does  that  matter?"  she  asked,  per 
emptorily.  "What  business  have  you  got 
going  around  talking  with  men  about  me  ?  " 

"Why,  it  wasn't  about  you  at  all,  Aunt 
Susan,"  I  put  in  more  confidently.  "  I  said  the 
Perkins  girls  kept  calling  me  'wise  child,' 
and  I  asked  Hi " 

Aunt  Susan  sighed  once  more,  and  inter 
rupted  me  to  inspect  the  wick  of  the  lamp. 
Then  she  turned  again  to  her  work,  but  less 
spiritedly  now.  She  -took  up  the  cleaver  with 
almost  an  air  of  sadness. 

"You  don't  understand — yet,"  she  said. 
"  But  don't  make  it  any  harder  for  me  by  talk 
ing.  Just  go  along  and  say  nothing  to  nobody. 
People  will  think  more  of  you." 

My  mind  strove  in  vain  to  grapple  with  this 
suggested  picture  of  myself,  moving  about  in 
perpetual  dumbness,  followed  everywhere  by 
universal  admiration.  The  lamp  would  not  hold 
itself  straight. 

All   at   once   we    both    distinctly    heard  the 

198 


My  Aunt  Susan 


sound  of  footsteps  close  outside.  The  noise  of 
crunching  on  the  dry,  frozen  snow  came  through 
the  thin  clap-boards  with  sharp  resonance. 
Aunt  Susan  ceased  cutting  and  listened. 

"  I  heard  somebody  rapping  at  the  front  door 
a  spell  ago,"  I  ventured  to  whisper.  My  Aunt 
looked  at  me,  and  probably  realized  that  I  was 
too  sleepy  to  be  accountable  for  my  actions.  At 
all  events  she  said  nothing,  but  moved  toward 
the  low  door  of  the  shed,  cleaver  in  hand. 

"Who's  there?"  she  called  out  in  shrill, 
belligerent  tones  ;  and  this  demand  she  repeat 
ed,  after  an  interval  of  silence,  when  an  irreso 
lute  knocking  was  heard  on  the  door. 

We  heard  a  man  coughing  immediately  out 
side  the  door.  I  saw  Aunt  Susan  start  at  the 
sound — almost  as  if  she  recognized  it.  A 
moment  later  this  man,  whoever  he  was,  mas 
tered  his  cough  sufficiently  to  call  out,  in  a  hesi 
tating  way  : 

"  Is  that  you,  Susan?  " 

Aunt  Susan  raised  her  chin  on  the  instant, 
her  nostrils  drawn  in,  her  eyes  flashing  like 
those  of  a  pointer  when  he  sees  a  gun  lifted.  I 
had  never  seen  her  so  excited.  She  wheeled 
round  once,  and  covered  me  with  a  swift,  pen 
etrating,  comprehensive  glance,  under  which 
my  knees  smote  together,  and  the  lamp  lurched 
199 


My  Aunt  Susan 


perilously.  Then  she  turned  again,  glided 
toward  the  door,  halted,  moved  backward  two 
or  three  steps — looked  again  at  me,  and  this 
time  spoke. 

"  Well,  I  swan  /"  was  what  she  said,  and  I 
felt  that  she  looked  it. 

"  Susan  !  Is  that  you  ?"  came  the  voice 
again,  hoarsely  appealing.  It  was  not  the  voice 
of  any  neighbor.  I  made  sure  I  had  never 
heard  it  before.  I  could  have  smiled  to  my 
self  at  the  presumption  of  any  man  calling  my 
Aunt  by  her  first  name,  if  I  had  not  been  too 
deeply  mystified. 

"  I've  been  directed  here  to  find  Miss  Susan 
Pike,"  the  man  outside  explained,  between 
fresh  coughings. 

"  Well,  then,  mog  your  boots  out  of  this  as 
quick  as  ever  you  can!"  my  Aunt  replied, 
with  great  promptitude.  "  You  won't  find  her 
here!  " 

"  But  I  have  found  her  !  "  the  stranger  pro 
tested,  with  an  accent  of  wearied  deprecation. 
"Don't  you  know  me,  Susan?  I  am  not 
strong,  this  cold  air  is  very  bad  for  me." 

"  I  say  *  get  out ! '  "  my  Aunt  replied,  sharply. 

Her  tone  was  unrelenting  enough,  but  I  noted 

that  she   had  tipped  her  head  a  little  to  one 

side,  a  clear  sign  to  me  that  she  was  opening 

200 


My  Aunt  Susan 


her  mind  to  argument.  I  felt  certain  that 
presently  I  should  see  this  man. 

And,  sure  enough,  after  some  further  parley, 
Susan  went  to  the  door,  and,  with  a  half-defi 
ant  gesture,  knocked  the  hook  up  out  of  the 
staple. 

"  Come  along  then,  if  you  must !  "  she  said, 
in  scornful  tones.  Then  she  marched  back  till 
she  stood  beside  me,  angry  resolution  written 
all  over  her  face  and  the  cleaver  in  her  hand. 

A  tall,  dark  figure,  opaque  against  a  gleam 
ing  background  of  moonlight  and  snowlight, 
was  what  I  for  a  moment  saw  in  the  frame  of 
the  open  doorway.  Then,  as  he  entered,  shut 
and  hooked  the  door  behind  him,  and  stood 
looking  in  a  dazed  way  over  at  our  lamplit 
group,  I  saw  that  he  was  a  slender,  delicately 
featured  man,  with  a  long  beard  of  yellowish 
brown  and  gentle  eyes.  He  was  clad  as  a 
soldier,  heavy  azure-hued  caped  overcoat  and 
all,  and  I  already  knew  enough  of  uniforms — 
cruel  familiarity  of  my  war-time  infancy — to 
tell  by  his  cap  that  he  was  an  officer.  He 
coughed  again  before  a  word  was  spoken  He 
looked  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  go  about 
routing  up  peaceful  households  of  a  winter's 
night. 

' '  Well,  now — what  is  your  business  ?  ' '  de- 

2OI 


My  Aunt  Susan 


manded  Aunt  Susan.  She  put  her  hand  on  my 
shoulder  as  she  spoke,  something  I  had  never 
known  her  to  do  before.  I  felt  confused  under 
this  novel  caress,  and  it  seemed  only  natural  that 
the  stranger,  having  studied  my  Aunt's  face  in 
a  wistful  way  for  a  moment,  should  turn  his 
gaze  upon  me.  I  was  truly  a  remarkable  ob 
ject,  with  Aunt  Susan's  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"  I  could  make  no  one  hear  at  the  other  door. 
I  saw  the  light  through  the  window  here,  and 
came  around,"  the  stranger  explained.  He 
sent  little  straying  glances  at  the  remains  of  the 
pig  and  at  the  weapon  my  Aunt  held  at  her 
side,  but  for  the  most  part  looked  steadily  at 
me. 

"That  doesn't  matter,"  said  Aunt  Susan, 
coldly.  "  What  do  you  want,  now  that  you 
are  here  ?  Why  did  you  come  at  all  ?  What 
business  had  you  to  think  that  I  ever  wanted  to 
lay  eyes  on  you  again  ?  How  could  you  have 
the  courage  to  show  your  face  here — in  my 
house?" 

The  man's  shoulders  shivered  under  their 
cape,  and  a  wan  smile  curled  in  his  beard. 
"You  keep  your  house  at  a  very  low  tempera 
ture,"  he  said  with  grave  pleasantry.  He  did 
not  seem  to  mind  Aunt  Susan's  hostile  demeanor 
at  all. 

202 


My  Aunt  Susan 


"  I  was  badly  wounded  last  September,"  he 
went  on,  quite  as  if  that  was  what  she  had 
asked  him,  "  and  lay  at  the  point  of  death  for 
weeks.  Then  they  sent  me  North,  and  I  have 
been  in  the  hospital  at  Albany  ever  since.  One 
of  the  nurses  there,  struck  by  my  name,  asked  me 
if  I  had  any  relatives  in  her  village — that  is,  Juno 
Mills.  In  that  way  I  learned  where  you  were 
living.  I  suppose  I  ought  not  to  have  come — 
against  doctor's  orders — the  journey  has  been 
too  much — I  have  suffered  a  good  deal  these 
last  two  hours." 

I  felt  my  Aunt's  hand  shake  a  little  on  my 
shoulder.  Her  voice,  though,  was  as  implaca 
ble  as  ever. 

"  There  is  a  much  better  reason  than  that 
why  you  should  not  have  come,"  she  said,  bit 
terly. 

The  stranger  was  talking  to  her,  but  look 
ing  at  me.  He  took  a  step  toward  me  now, 
with  a  softened  sparkle  in  his  eyes  and  an  out 
stretched  hand.  "  This — this  then  is  the  boy, 
is  it?  "  he  asked. 

With  a  gesture  of  amazing  swiftness  Aunt 
Susan  threw  her  arm  about  me,  and  drew  me 
close  to  her  side,  lamp  and  all.  With  her 
other  hand  she  lifted  and  almost  brandished 
the  cleaver. 

203 


My  Aunt  Susan 


"  No,  you  don't !  "  she  cried.  "  You  don't 
touch  him  !  He's  mine  !  I've  worked  for 
him  day  and  night  ever  since  I  took  him  from 
his  dying  mother's  breast.  I  closed  her  eyes. 
I  forgave  her.  Blood  isthicker'n  water  after  all. 
She  was  my  sister.  Yes,  I  forgave  poor  Em- 
meline,  and  I  kissed  her  before  she  died.  She 
gave  the  boy  to  me,  and  he's  mine  !  Mine,  do 
you  hear  ? — mine  ?  ' ' 

"  My  dear  Susan "  our  visitor  began. 

11  Don't  « dear  Susan  '  me  !  I  heard  it  once — 
once  too  often.  Oh,  never  again  !  You  left 
me  to  run  away  with  her.  I  don't  speak  of 
that.  I  forgave  that  when  I  forgave  her.  But 
that  was  the  least  of  it.  You  left  her  to  herself 
for  months  before  she  died.  You've  left  the 
boy  to  himself  ever  since.  You  can't  begin 
now.  I've  worked  my  fingers  to  the  bone  for 
him — you  can't  make  me  stop  now." 

"  I  went  to  California,"  he  went  on  in  a  low 
voice,  speaking  with  difficulty.  "We  didn't 
get  on  together  as  smoothly  as  we  might  per- 
hai)s,  but  I  had  no  earthly  notion  of  deserting 
her.  I  was  ill  myself,  lying  in  yellow-fever 
quarantine  off  Key  West,  at  the  very  time  she 
died.  When  I  finally  got  back  you  and  the 
child  were  both  gone.  I  could  not  trace  you. 
I  went  to  the  war.  I  had  made  money  in  Cali- 
204 


My  Aunt  Susan 


fornia.  It  is  trebled  .now.  I  rose  to  be  Col 
onel — I  have  a  Brigadier's  brevet  in  my  pocket 
now.  Yet  I  give  you  my  word  I  never  have 
desired  anything  so  much,  all  the  time,  as  to 
find  you  again — you  and  the  boy." 

My  Aunt  nodded  her  head  comprehendingly. 
I  felt  from  the  tremor  of  her  hand  that  she  was 
forcing  herself  against  her  own  desires  to  be 
disagreeable. 

"Yes,  that  war,"  was  what  she  said.  "I 
know  about  that  war  !  The  honest  men  that 
go  get  killed.  But  you — you  come  back  !" 

The  man  frowned  wearily,  and  gave  a  little 
groan  of  discouragement.  "  Then  this  is  final, 
is  it?  You  don't  wish  to  speak  with  me;  you 
really  desire  to  keep  the  boy — you  are  set  against 
my  ever  seeing  him — touching  him.  Why, 
then,  of  course — of  course — excuse  my " 

And  then  for  the  first  time  I  saw  a  human 
being  tumble  in  a  dead  swoon.  My  little  brain, 
dazed  and  bewildered  by  the  strange  new  things 
I  was  hearing,  lagged  behind  my  eyes  in  follow 
ing  the  sudden  pallor  on  the  man's  face — lagged 
behind  my  ears  in  noting  the  tell-tale  quaver 
and  gasp  in  his  voice.  Before  I  comprehended 
what  was  toward — lo  !  there  was  no  man  stand 
ing  in  front  of  me  at  all. 

Like  a  flash  Aunt  Susan  snatched  the  lamp 
205 


My  Aunt 


from  my  grasp  and  flung  herself  upon  her 
knees  beside  the  limp  and  huddled  figure. 
After  a  momentary  inspection  of  the  white, 
bearded  face,  she  set  the  lamp  down  on  the 
frozen  earth  floor  and  took  his  head  upon  her 
lap. 

"Take  the  lamp,  rim  to  the  buttery,  and 
bring  the  bottle  of  hartshorn  !  "  she  command 
ed  me,  hurriedly.  "  Or,  no — wait — open  the 
door — that's  it — walk  ahead  with  the  light  !" 

The  strong  woman  stood  upright  as  she  spoke, 
her  shoulders  braced  against  the  burden  she 
bore  in  her  arms.  Unaided,  with  slow  steps, 
she  carried  the  senseless  form  of  the  soldier  into 
the  living  room,  and  held  it  without  rest  of  any 
sort,  the  while  I,  under  her  direction,  wildly 
tore  off  quilts,  blankets,  sheets,  and  feather-tick 
from  my  bed  and  heaped  them  up  on  the  floor 
beside  the  stove.  Then,  when  I  had  spread 
them  to  her  liking,  she  bent  and  gently  laid 
him  down. 

"Now  get  the  hartshorn,"  she  said.  I  heard 
her  putting  more  wood  on  the  fire,  but  when  I 
returned  with  the  phial  she  sat  once  again  with 
the  stranger's  head  upon  her  knee.  She  was 
softly  stroking  the  fine,  waving  brown  hair  upon 
his  brow,  but  her  eyes  were  lifted,  looking 
dreamily  at  far-away  things.  I  could  have 
206 


My  Aunt  Susan 


sworn  to  the  beginnings  of  a  smile  about  her 
parted  lips.  It  was  not  like  my  Aunt  Susan  at 
all. 

"  Come  here,  Ira,"  I  heard  her  say  at  last, 
after  a  long  time  had  been  spent  in  silence.  I 
walked  over  and  stood  at  her  shoulder,  looking 
down  upon  the  pale  face  upturned  against  the 
black  of  her  worn  dress.  The  blue  veins  just 
discernible  in  temples  and  closed  eyelids,  the 
delicately  turned  features,  the  way  his  brown 
beard  curled,  the  fact  that  his  breathing  was 
gently  regular  once  more — these  are  what  I  saw. 
But  my  Aunt  seemed  to  demand  that  I  should 
see  more. 

''Well?"  she  asked,  in  a  tone  mellowed 
beyond  all  recognition.  "'Don't  you — don't 
you  see  who  it  is?  " 

I  suppose  I  really  must  have  had  an  idea  by 
this  time.  But  I  remember  that  I  shook  my 
head. 

My  Aunt  positively  did  smile  this  time. 
"The  Perkins  girls  were  wrong,"  she  said; 
"  there  isn't  the  least  smitch  of  a  l  wise  child  ' 
about  you  !  ' ' 

There  was  another  pause.     Emboldened  by 

consciousness   of  a   change  in    the   emotional 

atmosphere,  I  was  moved  to  lay  my  hand  upon 

my  Aunt's  shoulder.     The  action  did  not  seem 

207 


My  Aunt  Susan 


to  displease  her,  and  we  remained  thus  for  some 
minutes,  watching  together  this  strange  addition 
to  our  family  party. 

Finally  she  told  me  to  get  on  my  cap,  com 
forter,  and  mittens,  and  run  over  to  Dr.  Pea- 
body's  and  fetch  him  back  with  me.  The  pur 
port  of  my  mission  oppressed  me. 

"  Is  he  going  to  die  then  ?  "   I  asked. 

Aunt  Susan  laughed  outright.  "  You  little 
goose,"  she  said  ;  "do  you  think  the  doctors 
kill  people  every  time?  " 

And,  laughing  again,  with  a  trembling  soft 
ness  in  her  voice  and  tears  upon  her  black  eye 
lashes,  she  lifted  her  face  to  mine — and  kissed 
me ! 

*  *  *  #  # 

No  fatality  dogged  good  old  Doctor  Pea- 
body's  big  footsteps  through  the  snow  that 
night.  I  fell  asleep  while  he  was  still  at  my 
Aunt's  house,  but  not  before  the  stranger  had 
recovered  consciousness,  and  was  sitting  up  in 
the  large  rocking-chair,  and  it  was  clearly  under 
stood  that  he  was  soon  to  be  well  again. 

The  kindly,  garrulous  doctor  did  more  than 
reassure  our  little  household.  He  must  have 
spent  most  of  the  night  going  about  reassuring 
the  other  households  of  Juno  Mills.  At  all 
events,  when  I  first  went  out  next  morning — 
208 


My  Aunt  Susan 


while  our  neighbors  were  still  eating  their  buck 
wheat  cakes  and  pork  fat  by  lamplight — every 
body  seemed  to  know  that  my  father,  the  dis 
tinguished  Colonel  Blodgett,  had  returned  from 
the  war  on  sick  leave,  and  was  lying  ill  at  the 
house  of  his  sister-in-law.  I  felt  at  once  the 
altered  attitude  of  the  village  toward  me.  Im 
portant  citizens  who  had  never  spoken  to  me 
before — dignified  and  portly  men  in  blue  cut 
away  coats  with  brass  buttons,  and  high  stiff 
hats  of  shaggy  white  silk — stopped  now  to  lay 
their  hands  on  the  top  of  my  head  and  ask  me 
how  my  father,  the  Colonel,  was  getting  along. 
The  grocer's  hired  man  gave  me  a  Jackson  ball 
and  two  molasses  cookies  the  very  first  time  I 
saw  him.  Even  the  Perkins  girls,  during  the 
course  of  the  afternoon,  strolled  over  to  our 
front  gate,  and,  instead  of  hurling  enigmatic 
objurgations  at  me,  invited  me  to  come  out  and 
play.  The  butcher  of  his  own  accord  came  and 
finished  cutting  up  the  pig. 

These  changes  came  back  to  me  as  one  part 
of  the  great  metamorphosis  which  the  night's 
events  had  wrought.  Another  part  was  the 
definite  disappearance  of  the  stern-faced,  tire 
lessly  toiling  old  maid  I  had  known  all  my  life 
as  Aunt  Susan.  In  her  place  there  was  now  a 
much  younger  woman,  with  pleasant  lines  about 
209 


My  Aunt  Susan 


her  pretty  mouth,  and  eyes  that  twinkled  when 
they  looked  at  me,  and  who  paid  no  attention 
to  the  loom  whatever,  but  bustled  cheerily 
about  the  house  instead,  thinking  only  of  good 
things  for  us  to  eat. 

I  remember  that  I  marked  my  sense  of  the 
difference  by  abandoning  the  old  name  of  Aunt 
Susan,  and  calling  her  now  just  "Auntie." 
And  one  day,  in  the  mid-spring,  after  she  and 
her  convalescent  patient  had  returned  from  their 
first  drive  together  into  the  country  round 
about,  she  told  me,  as  she  took  off  her  new  bon 
net  in  an  absent-minded  way,  and  looked  medi 
tatively  at  the  old  disused  loom,  and  then  bent 
down  to  brush  my  forehead  with  her  warm  lips 
— she  told  me  that  henceforth  I  was  to  call  her 
Mother. 


210 


NEW  NOVELS  AND  SHORT  STORIES. 

In  Uniform  Binding.     Each  One  Dollar. 

A  POUND  OF  CURE. 
By  W.  H.  BISHOP. 

A  striking  novel  of  life  at  Monte  Carlo.  It  embodies  a 
curious  picture  of  the  growth  of  the  gambling  spirit  upon  a 
young  married  man,  whose  only  fault  is  his  weakness  in  the 
presence  of  alluring  pleasure.  In  addition  to  the  very  remark 
able  plot,  the  book  is  noteworthy  for  the  delicate  and  pictur 
esque  descriptions  of  the  scenery  around  Monte  Carlo.  Mr. 
Bishop's  easy  and  very  accurate  English  style  adds  to  the 
effectiveness  of  the  book  as  a  work  of  art. 

SALEM  KITTREDGE,  AND  OTHER  STORIES. 
By  BLISS  PERRY. 

Salem  Kittredge  is  a  story  about  a  theological  student,  a 
pretty  girl  with  active  sympathies,  and  a  young  man  addicted 
to  drink.  How  these  characters  stood  affected  by  each  other 
during  a  season  at  Bar  Harbor,  is  told  with  much  spirit  and 
skill.  The  other  stories  are  crisp  and  interesting,  full  of  keen 
character  drawing  and  a  quick  sense  of  human  nature. 

"  '  Salem  Kittredge '  is  one  of  the  best  short  stories  we  have  read 
recently.  There  are  eight  other  stories  in  the  volume,  all  good." 

— Boston  Advertiser. 

TALES    OF    THE    MAINE    COAST. 
By  NOAH  BROOKS. 

Including  "  Pansy  Pegg,"  "  The  Apparition  of  Joe  Murch," 
"A  Hereditary  Barn,"  "The  Phantom  Sailor,"  "The  Waif  of 
Nautilus  Island,"  "A  Century  Ago,"  etc.,  all  dealing  with  the 
romantic  life  of  the  people,  and  all  full  of  local  color. 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS,    Publishers, 

I53~I57    Fifth   Avenue, 

NEW  YORK  CITY. 


•PV 


DAY  USE 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWEL 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


~ 


OCT  18  1967 


JUL2(Ji<m  7  n 


i'rnl  I.ihrarv 


M119741 


95 

esi. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


S,  SMITH  &  SONS, 


